


The Stars Above Nevada

by incacola



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Laundromat, Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Coming Out, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Don't Ask Me How This Fits Into Canon, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Galaxy Garrison, Gay Keith (Voltron), Gays In Arcades, Greek Mythology References, Keith has Social Anxiety, Lance Likes Philosophy, Laundromat AU, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Pretentious Philosophy, Shiro Is Flawed But We Love Him, Texan Keith (Voltron), Wannabe Contemporary Novel, a dash of angst, a ton of broganes, finished fic, i guess, if nevada-boo was a thing like weaboo i'd be it, lowkey slow burn, some time skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-03-07 16:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 92,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13438392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incacola/pseuds/incacola
Summary: “Tell me,” Keith asked, finally tearing his eyes away from the sky to look at Lance.Lance frowned in confusion. “Tell you what?”“What the desert whispers into your ears.”–One night, a few hundred years into the future, in a dark laundromat in the middle of the vast Nevada desert – Keith ends up meeting Lance by a turn of fate.When they meet again in Galaxy Garrison for their junior year, an unlikely friendship blooms between them, as lively as the star-scattered skies, and as strong as the desert wind.





	1. Chain Reaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this fic since November and now it's finally done so I'm putting it out there.
> 
> Some things you should probably know:  
> - **I highly highly recommend reading the first two chapters back to back! I wrote them to be read that way!**  
>  -This fic has spawned from my need to write a contemporary novel! So that's basically what it is. Oops.  
> -IDK where this fits in canon, but I originally intended for it to be set a year before canon if it helps?  
> -English isn't my first language! I ran the whole thing through a spellcheck but there are probably still some errors left. If you find one, feel free to tell me!  
> -It's finished! And has a total of 92k words spread over 36 chapters!  
> -The entirety of the fic is set in Nevada, USA, a place I've fallen in love with writing this, but that I've never actually visited. If some geographic stuff is inaccurate, that's probably why. It includes both fictional and real places in Nevada.  
> -There are some pretty important original characters, but ultimately it's a klance fic.  
> -This fic is a weird hybrid of a Garrison AU and a Laundromat AU! I couldn't choose between the two because I'm a useless bisexual, so I combined them. Fight me.  
> -You can find me on Tumblr @ [biqaladin](https://biqaladin.tumblr.com/)
> 
> That's it! Hope you enjoy reading!

**Dreams of Metal Birds**

 

Chain Reaction

 

October 1 st , 3:32 p.m.

“So there's this thing,” Pidge said out of nowhere, her mouth drawing into an all-too-familiar pouty smile, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

Oh no. This couldn't be good.

“Thing?” Keith asked reluctantly after a while, avoiding eye contact, and by the time he did, his classmate's expression had already morphed into a devilish grin.

 _Nothing good whatsoever_ , Keith thought. Come to think of it, nothing good _ever_ came from his interactions with Katie Holt. The girl was a fiend, and a persuasive one at that. They didn't talk much, but whenever they did, it always ended badly for Keith, and always felt like some kind of bet. A game of truth and dare in the middle of Chemistry, which they both sucked at in their own right, though put together as lab partners, they were practically a safety hazard.

One time they miscalculated the ingredients for the Elephant's Toothpaste experiment they made in the previous year, which ended up covering their whole corner of the classroom in thick foam. Another incident caused a funny smell to linger in the lab for a week and a half because of burnt sugar. Both accidents were caused by Pidge's disdain for following rules. Keith thought it was absolutely horrifying. Pidge thought it was hilarious. That was the way she was, he guessed.

“Just, a thing,” Pidge said innocently, shrugging in her way-too-big of a lab coat, her eyes darting between the whiteboard and her computer, taking some notes. Then, ever-faux-casually out of the corner of her mouth, she said, “a party.”

“Hmm,” Keith hummed, his disinterest obvious.

Pidge nudged him with her elbow, dropping the indifferent act. “It's happening tonight – you know, a kickstarter for the school year. Juniors only.”

“Hmm.”

Her face dropped sarcastically – it was almost comical. “It's happening tonight,” she repeated, “and we're going.”

Keith scoffed, a little too loud, which earned him an unamused "shhh!" from his Chem teacher, Professor Montgomery. He mouthed, _sorry_ , though in his mind he placed the entire fault on Pidge.

“Speak for yourself,” he whispered after their teacher looked away. “the only kind of party I need is a rescue party from tomorrow's test.”

Keith gestured to his cluttered notebook. His handwriting, which was usually somewhat neat, looked absolutely jumbled and unreadable on the page. It was times like this that he envied Pidge's laptop, capable of organizing all her notes neatly in a matter of seconds, despite Pidge being the most disorganized person Keith knew.

She took advantage of Keith's attention on her side of the table and kept prodding.

“Hey, if you tell that joke at the party people might laugh!” Pidge said, tilted head and beaming.

“No, thanks.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Thirty different watches beeped all at once, and everybody was hurrying out in a matter of seconds. Keith, who never liked lunchbreaks, was still relieved. Whatever Pidge had in mind was her problem. He wasn't going to that stupid party.

 

October 1 st , 10:28 p.m.

Keith was at the stupid party.

He didn't know what happened, or how he'd succumbed to Pidge's attempts to drag him into a social event, but somehow he did – Pidge knocking on his dorm door just as night began to fall – and there he was now, standing awkwardly in someone's summer house, a place he had never been to, with a soda in hand and Pidge talking to him about a hundred different topics all at once by his side.

See, they had this sort of weird understanding. It was weird because they weren't even friends, Keith didn't think. They were just a strange combination of two introverted people who happened to be lab partners with nothing in common at all. Pidge would hang out with Keith whenever she needed company, and Keith would hang out with her if he ever did. Except the latter never happened.

Neither of them had to outright say it for them to know it was a deal that they both kept. But even in that – in being introverted – they were different, because Pidge, ever since Keith had met her in the first Chemistry class of freshman year, always went out of her way, sometimes in the Garrison halls literally, to make friends. To talk to people. To attend social events like the one Keith got miserably sucked into. She was shy, but she tried.

Keith, on the other hand, was never a people's person. He kept alone. In all his life, Keith had a total of one friend, and even he was gone.

A girl walked by their set spot in the mess that was that party. She had long black hair, and Keith recognized her face vaguely, but not her name. She waved at Pidge – Keith knew it was Pidge she waved to because no one knew him well enough to wave at him – and just like that Pidge's ramble about Binary Systems (or maybe binary code? – Keith wasn't really listening, what with obnoxious pop music screeching in his ears) was cut short, and she lept away towards the girl, turning only to give Keith a wink and two finger-guns, before Keith could protest.

And that was how Keith ended up stranded in a foreign living room. _Great_ , he thought, feeling pathetic with his crumpled up cup and awkward stance. _Just great_.

 

October 2 nd , 1:35 a.m.

Keith was limping on a highway. Actually dragging his muddy feet over the vast, stretched out nowhere road in some shithole in the Nevada desert. He reeked of beer. His hair felt stiff on his head.

Why, _oh why_ , did he ever listen to Pidge?

 

 


	2. Wash 'n Go

Wash 'n Go

 

October 1 st , 11:49 p.m.

Keith wouldn't have stayed at the party, if not for Pidge probably holding the one and only pair of keys to his barrack.

The other option was that he had somehow lost them in the mess of the party, and that was a possibility Keith was not going to consider for the sake of his sanity. And anyway, Pidge had to be responsible for his keys' disappearance – her nagging him to come to the party and actually stay for some time was the biggest clue.

But Keith felt he had stayed for long enough. Too long, in fact. God, he was mad at her. _No_ , he thought as he made his way urgently between the swarms of people, he was _pissed_. Pissed at the way Pidge thought the cure to Keith's woes was a stupid party full of drunk juniors. Pissed at the loss of his keys. Most of all, he was pissed at himself for letting Pidge pressure him into going.

The problem was, he should have known better. She had already gotten the better of him before; every year since freshman year Pidge took pride in the fact that she managed to drag him out to the field for the Garrison's yearly air show, always under a merciless summer sun. It was a pointless event, in which some of the prodigies the Garrison nurtured hopped inside a cockpit and pulled stunts in the air for an audience comprised of wishful students and smug instructors to see.

It was also the only day of the year in which family could come visit. That was one of the many reasons Keith hated that day, and much rathered to stay in his barrack for the entire time. That was what he told Katie every year, but she – with the help of her brother Matt – managed to drag him out into the blazing sun to squint at looping aircrafts anyway.

Though, in reality, that wasn't done entirely – or at all – thanks to the Holts. Their "pretty please"s weren't the reason Keith stayed out for the same show every year. There was only one person in that whole institution that he cared about, the one that made the most awe-inspiring acts, that landed the teardrop turns every time, that managed the most striking whifferdills. For him he came, not for Pidge's pushes.

Who would Keith go for this year? Maybe he wouldn't go at all – if he would, it wouldn't be for Pidge, he was certain.

But she'd never managed to drag him this far out of his comfortable introverted cocoon, and he had no excuse for being at this godforsaken party anyway. That was almost funny to Keith.

It wasn't, though. He was standing in a bathroom that smelled like vomit and cleaning products, pulling at the fabric of his white-orange uniform with one hand and scrubbing with the other under a tap. It wasn't white any longer – after he decided to go get Pidge from wherever she was hanging out to ask for his barrack keys, two obviously drunk girls in nothing close to formal wear stumbled onto him, their unstable hands letting their paper cups spill all over Keith.

They held beer, no less, _beer_ – the thick smell and yellow tint staining his shirt mercilessly and not letting go even under a harsh stream of water and a bar of soap scrubbed relentlessly. Underage girls, spilling beer on Keith, at a party. That was a hundred different shades of wrong.

When Keith realized his attempts were doomed, he closed the tap and leaned onto the sink in defeat. That was the last straw, if there ever was a first to begin with.

 

October 2 nd , 1:41 a.m.

The empty highway was a beautiful sight at night – purple desert skies looming over him like a dome, with thousands of stars littered all over them, each brighter than the one next to it.

Keith might have appreciated the scenery any other time, but the Nevada heat along with his clothes clinging onto his body in a mess of mud and beer made his walk unbearable. After a while of wobbling on the stranded road he saw it – _finally_ , the laundromat.

It was a tiny building that Keith would never have found if it wasn't for his phone, with cracked white paint covering its walls and a clear glass window on its front with a big neon sign hanging above, _Wash 'n Go_ , written in a cursive retro font and radiating an eye-straining magenta, alien and misplaced against the reddish desert view, and a small sign right beneath it, _self-service laundromat_ , illuminated a phosphorescent yellow. Both of the titles were framed by a green clothes-hanger that was flashing on and off. There was a cold-white light spilling from the inside like a screen of blue, giving the place an even gloomier appearance, which was not made better by the fact that the long sticks of fluorescent lighting were illuminating only the front and center of the laundromat, leaving the back of it in shadow.

Keith didn't mind. He urged his tired legs to walk faster with his last bits of energy, pushed the glass door with a kick of his foot, stopping in front of the first washing machine he saw. Then with jittery impatience he shook his jacket off, removed his sticky shirt, his arms moving quickly; then went the pants and the socks, until he was left with nothing but his underwear on.

He hesitated for a second then, thinking how awkward it would be if anyone were to walk in. But the fresh air against his bare skin granted him relief in the cruel Nevada heat, and anyway, he never saw any person pass by him, neither by foot nor by car.

Besides, he couldn't afford to think it through – he had stupidly, _oh, so stupidly_ , gone to the party wearing his only uniform. The truth was, he packed little else for his stay at the Garrison – there was no point in doing otherwise. The occasions in which he was not supposed to wear the uniform were practically nonexistent. He needed those clothes to be ready as soon as possible – tomorrow was a school day. _How did he let himself go to a party before a school day?_

Decided, Keith shoved all of his muddy, beer-drenched clothes into the washing machine. He scooped detergent powder from a limp, brandless bag sitting on top of the machine, and dumped three full scoops on top of his clothes, muttering a silent prayer that it would be sufficient to get rid of the stains. There was no softener nearby, but it was good enough, or so Keith hoped. He kicked the washing machine's round window shut with a swift motion, then slipped a few coins into the metal slit beneath a peeling, washed-out yellow _2$_ sticker, and pressed the sole green button above it.

The machine kicked into work, rumbling and shaking like an old car's engine. Keith inhaled, then sighed and fell back against another washing machine in the first instance of relief of the night. _It was turning around_ , he tried to convince himself, but the faint smell of beer from his body made it hard to believe.

 

October 2 nd , 12:02 a.m.

Keith could not find Pidge for the life of him.

For the ten minutes he was looking for her, searching every room and checking every corridor of the foreign house, until he went outside in a moment of desperation, and there she was, talking to some juniors that didn't seem to mind hearing a lecture about the charm of binary code, like nothing happened.

“Whoa, what happened to you?” she asked Keith when she noticed him.

“I got covered in beer looking for my barrack keys, which you took,” he gritted out, cheeks hollow in anger, not even hiding his accusation.

“I didn't –”

“Pidge, _my keys_.”

“I don't have them!” she dug into a pocket on her jeans to prove her point, fishing out only her own set of keys and holding it out on her pointer finger by the key ring.

“Are you sure you don't have a hole in your pocket?” suggested the black-haired girl Pidge was talking to earlier. “Or left them in your barrack?”

Keith made a point to ignore her in his furious haze.

“I can help you look for them?” Pidge offered, her usual smile stretched across her face, making her cheeks appear round.

Before Keith could shut the offer down with ferocity, someone's vehicle – a clearly new, sparkling motorcycle floating a couple of inches above ground – came to a screeching halt in a half-circle around Keith, Pidge, and Pidge's friends.

The good news was, the reckless driver didn't bother to run over them all. The bad news – even though Pidge and her friends managed to step back and take cover on time, Keith was standing right in the line of fire as the motorcycle splashed over a puddle of mud. Keith backed up into a flowery bush, but it wasn't enough. The mud splattered all over him, from his boots to his hair – some even managed to sully his face.

It was... bad. No, it was worse.

Pidge was probably the only one out of her group who didn't crack up laughing at the sight of Keith decorated with fifty different toppings of dirt. She mumbled something that got swallowed in the laughs and the music, but Keith was no longer there to hear anyway.

With the last fragment of dignity he had left, Keith walked away, leaving the beats of pop music and the dancing, drunk juniors behind him, clutching his fists hard at his sides as he found his way to the nearest highway. It was either going back to the Garrison or to some laundromat, and Keith was sure as hell not showing up the next day sporting beer and mud.

 

October 2 nd , 1:44 a.m.

“You have flowers in your hair.” a voice broke the silence in the laundromat, making Keith jump so high his leg muscles felt strained.

“What the fuck,” Keith breathed, his eyes fluttering closed, trying to collect himself.

“Sorry, man, I didn't mean to scare you!” the voice was coming from one of the dark corners of the room. “I thought you saw me here.”

Keith squinted at the darkness at the back of the laundromat – at first, he didn't see anything, but as his eyes focused on the deep shadows he noticed a figure, sitting on top of some washing machines with their back against the wall and their legs folded, an empty basket lying next to them and a yo-yo bungying up and down from a hand that was resting on top of their knee.

The person collected the yo-yo into their pocket, then jumped down and into the blue-white light of the lamps.

He was a boy, about Keith's age, tan and tall, his skin appearing a dark shade of mustard under the cold lighting. He was barefoot and shirtless, slight shadows of his ribs beneath his sunkissed skin evident by his slender figure were made deep and dark under the harsh light. He had brown hair that looked soft to the touch, and blue eyes that complemented his earthy shades. The only thing he was wearing was washed-out cargo shorts that reached his knees. Suddenly Keith became self-conscious, realizing that even _he_ had more clothes on at the moment, and fighting the urge to cover his boxer briefs.

The boy didn't say a word, though he was smiling. Then, he walked in swift steps over to Keith, coming dangerously close, which took Keith by surprise.

“What –“

“I told you, you have flowers in your hair,” the boy said, reaching his hand and picking and tugging at Keith's hair. “Don't move, I'm trying to get rid of them. I mean –“ he paused for a moment, looking Keith over, a gesture that sent yet another urge on Keith's end to fold into himself to hide his lack of clothes. “– unless you want them there...?” the boy asked hesitantly, cocking a brow in question.

“No, why would I –“

“Dude,” the boy stopped, placed a hand on Keith's bare shoulder, and looked him dead in the eye. “ _You have a mullet_. For all I know you could be some... hippie, flower boy person.”

“Hippie, flower boy person?” Keith asked.

The boy huffed a laughter, which made the long strands of hair falling on Keith's forehead to flutter against his skin, all while continuing to part Keith's hair in search of flowers. Keith figured he got them from that bush he ran into while trying to get away from the splashing hovercraft, although Pidge could have dropped them on his head herself and he wouldn't have noticed with how crazy his night had been.

“Hey, those exist,” said the boy, then clapped his hands, swiping them over one another and dropping a rain of delicate pink flowers to the floor. “There. All done, flower boy.”

“It's Keith,” Keith said, running his fingers through his stiff hair, untangling some of the knots formed by the dense mud.

“Keith,” the boy repeated, nodding, like he was tasting a new flavor. “Keith the flower boy.”

“Just Keith.”

“Mullet boy Keith?” suggested the boy, his eyebrows darting up.

“Just Keith,” Keith repeated, feeling the corners of his lips curling up.

"Just Keith." the boy nodded again, leaning back on the washing machine Keith's clothes were spinning in. He was smiling, too. "I'm Lance. Hey, if you don't mind me asking, how did you end up covered in dirt, flowers, and alcohol on this fine laundromat in the middle of nowhere?"

Keith sighed, combing through his hair still. “It's... kind of a long story.”

“Hey, it's either really late, or super early, and we're both clearly undressed and going nowhere for the next few hours.” the boy – Lance – gestured at the washing machine he was sitting on. “You can spill the beans.”

“A therapy session in a laundromat?” Keith asked sarcastically, but Lance shrugged and nodded.

“Yeah, sort of. A heart-to-heart in our underwear in a deserted laundromat,” he said ever-so-casually, like what he was suggesting was nothing out of the ordinary at all. “I mean, we've never met. You're never going to see me again. Why not tell a stranger about your woes. Besides, you've made me curious, flower boy.”

Keith chuckled. Then, he considered it. A part of him was wailing at his brain with variations of _you can't be serious!_ and _you gotta be kidding me!_ s, but after all the insane, out-of-luck shit that the night had presented Keith with, his most prominent thought was, _what the hell_.

“Well?” asked Lance.

“Well,” answered Keith, “it all began when my lab partner decided it was good for me to come to this party.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably going to update once/twice a week! Stay tuned!


	3. Heart-to-Heart with a Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway it was a torture to wait a week to post this!!!  
> i think i'm going to update twice a week from now lmao.  
> also the ~~pretentious~~ contemporary novel is strong in this one whoops!

Heart-to-Heart  with a Stranger

 

October 2 nd , 1:53 a.m.

All throughout telling Lance the laundromat boy about his crazy night, hazy questions such as, _what the fuck am I doing?_ popped into Keith's head. He kept telling the story anyway, stopping only to give the background on Pidge's insistence that Keith went to social events that was his torment ever since freshman year.

He never said her name, though. He never said any names – not that he had many in the tale. As he was saying everything out loud, Keith began feeling crueler and crueler for being so angry at Pidge. Going over the events of the night in retrospect, he couldn't help but feel a sting of guilt spread throughout his chest like venom. She was well-meaning, despite everything. _Maybe she was his friend after all_ , Keith wondered, a hush in the back of his mind.

When he was telling Lance about how she dragged him out to the tarmac to watch the air show for the first time, he had a weird epiphany that for all his good memories from the Galaxy Garrison he had her to thank for, somehow. Even the Elephant's Toothpaste got them laughing pretty hard that afternoon. He didn't realize it at first, but soon enough he had composed an apology to tell her the next time they met, if she would be willing to hear it at all. He wouldn't blame her if she wouldn't – Keith, more than anyone else, understood the heavy price that came with apologies, both said and unsaid.

Keith got to the point where he reached the laundromat.

“And here we are,” Lance finished.

“Here we are,” Keith confirmed.

Lance nodded, expression serious, processing the information. His finger was tapping on his chin, like he was considering how to respond.

“Here's what we're gonna do,” he said at last, turning to Keith decisively. “It's my turn, then we'll give each other free laundromat words of wisdom, and by then our laundry will probably be ready.”

“Your turn...?” Keith asked, confused.

“For sharing-caring time, obviously.” he made an exaggerated hand gesture, then pulled his legs up onto the washing machine and crossed them, hugging his knees close. “this is a two-sided relationship we have here, mullet.”

“Oh,” Keith said, then shrugged, letting his elbows drop on the washing machine, legs crossed on his ankles. “Go ahead.”

“Okay,” Lance said, rolling his shoulders back, like he was preparing for a run and not for talking about his problems. Then, he looked at Keith, his eyebrows curled in worry and his mouth in a frown. “Wait, nope, nevermind, I can't.”

“Seriously?” Keith found himself throwing his arms dramatically in the air. “You're the one who said all that stuff about having a heart-to-heart with a stranger.”

“Alright, alright.” Lance sighed in defeat, his shoulders falling forward. “But you should know that my problems aren't like yours.”

“Are they... legal problems?” Keith asked hesitantly, brow sinking low.

Then Lance laughed, really laughed, something sweet and unrestrained rolling out from his bare, dark stomach. He had a musical laughter, like he could laugh and a whole orchestra would turn around to accompany him. It seemed so rare to Keith, to hear an unfamiliar boy laugh in an unfamiliar laundromat, a gem buried in the desert soil, that he couldn't help but wonder if any of it was real at all.

“Seriously, who _are_ you?” Lance said, still half-laughing. “No, they're not _legal problems_ , just... strange ones.”

“Strange how?” Keith prodded.

“Just strange,” Lance answered. “Like, emotional-baggage strange.”

“Okay,” Keith said, waiting to hear more.

Only the low rumble of the spinning washing machines served as background noise. No, that wasn't true – the silence was stretched out long enough for Keith to pick up on the slight buzz of the flashing neon sign hanging outside the laundromat, and a hushed chirping sound, maybe a cricket, even further than that.

Then, finally, Lance sighed in defeat. It was quiet when he spoke. “So, um, okay. How do I even – okay. Basically, my family is currently about just over 2,000 miles away. And – and – I guess, they were my safety blanket, because I'm finding myself now worrying about things or thinking about things or fearing things that I was never bothered with back home. And my friends here – they're great and all, but... I don't know. I guess being homesick pushed me into an existential crisis or something. Am I making sense? I'm probably not making sense.” he looked away, fidgeting with his yo-yo again.

“You're making perfect sense,” Keith said, voice small and clear, a spring of clear water.

It seemed almost impossible to think that the boy that picked flowers off from his hair was the same one sitting in front of him right now. Lance had shifted on top of the washing machine. He was now hugging his knees close to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs, wrapping and unwrapping the string around his yo-yo as a distraction. He looked like a fragile thing under the hard light, a small bird shielding itself from the rain by its wings. His head was leaning on one of his knees, his cheek squished against it. He looked up at Keith, still looking vulnerable.

"Maybe I do." Lance's voice was quiet, too. "I mean, it's ridiculous – I kept getting mad at my family for babying me, and now I'd give anything just to get told to fold the laundry or something."

“If it's any consolation,” Keith said, “I can tell you to do that when your clothes are done.”

Lance chuckled, his mouth crooked in a sad smile. “I appreciate it.” then he took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. “And about your stuff? I don't think your lab partner is intentionally bugging you. In fact, I know someone pretty similar. People have different ways of showing they care, whether it be dragging you to an air show or a party, or giving you advice in a badly-lit laundromat.”

Keith chuckled at that, then Lance chuckled at that, then both of them cracked up laughing – a big, heavy, blissful laughter at nothing much at all. Somehow, that made sense to Keith, too.

 

October 2 nd , 2:04 a.m.

After that, it was quiet for some time as they were catching their breaths. Keith wiped the corner of his eye using the knuckle of his fingers. His cheeks hurt from holding a smile for long. He decided in the back of his mind that being high on exhaustion, floating away like a cloud made of laughter in a serene wind, was a good thing. Why did the juniors back at the party drink at all when an addictive drug such as joyful tiredness existed?

Lance was clutching onto his bare stomach with his hand, swaying forwards and backwards with every breath he drew in and blew out. He looked out of place in the dreary scene of the laundromat – Keith thought he looked like someone who was just at the beach, though he knew he himself probably didn't look any less unfit at the gloomy place. But Lance was different still, the way his skin was a satin pool of melanin, as opposed to Keith's light shade of olive, which looked a deadly pale in the artificial light. Maybe that was it – Keith blended in with the dead landscape, but Lance stood stark against it.

Just then Lance sighed, his breath having caught up, and he sprawled across three washing machines with his limbs loosely hanging off. He appeared even taller that way, long legs spread out, like a human-starfish hybrid. His gaze was fixed on nothing in particular in the peeling ceiling, and the ghost of a smile was slowly disappearing from his face.

“Do you think we're alone in the universe?” he asked suddenly, then turned to Keith. “A little philosophical, I know – but maybe a guy in a laundromat in Nevada has the answers. Besides, philosophy is good.”

Keith thought for a moment, glancing outside the glass pane of the front of the laundromat as if that would give him a clue. He didn't know what he was expecting, to tell the truth – an alien spaceship to rip the atmosphere open in a ball of fire? An arrow signaling towards a point in the night sky where some planet holding life would be? – he didn't know. Either way, the only thing he saw was stars, sprinkled across the black surface of the Nevada skies generously. They were flashing at him like a million _Wash 'n Go_ signs, like a morse code meant for a madman to decipher, or maybe like the rings of ripples in puddles, a pattern sewn by rapid rain. The Milky Way held clusters of them, a white stain against the dark vastness of space, which made Keith's stomach flinch with the realization that he was so small inside a home so big.

“I don't know,” Keith said through barely open lips, almost a whisper. “I haven't thought about it, not really, not seriously.”

“Neither did I,” Lance confessed, making a grumpy sound. “Not until I came here, anyway. It's the stupid desert, man, I'm telling you. After a while Nevada gets to you – she lures you in with pretty twinkly stars, and before you know it, she's got you by the throat whispering all sorts of existential shit into your ears.”

“Tell me,” Keith asked, finally tearing his eyes away from the sky to look at Lance.

Lance frowned in confusion. “Tell you what?”

“What the desert whispers into your ears.” Keith situated himself on top of the washing machine, like a child yearning for a bedtime story.

Lance huffed, smiling. “It's pretty batshit, flower boy.”

When Keith said nothing in response, Lance chuckled and sat up once more, legs swinging lightly off of the rumbling machine.

“Alright,” he said, then looked both sides dramatically, like he was looking out for cars before crossing a road, and whisper-shouted behind the palm of his hand, “I think we're living in the Matrix.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Lance, however, frowned deeply, his eyebrows meeting his eyes. “Why are you rolling your eyes?”

Keith chuckled lightly, shrugging his shoulders. “I don't know, the Matrix? Why not, like, Star Wars or something?”

Lance gasped loudly and placed the tips of his fingers on his chest, faking offense. “You take that back!” he said, as theatrical as before. Then, his expression changed. His hand dropped on his lap, and he looked away. “But I'm serious, you know.”

Keith's brow arched, he couldn't help it. Lance rolled his eyes.

“Okay, not _literally_ serious, but I did mean it.” Lance shrugged, his collarbone catching the light. “It's like, we're living in this world, right? This ordinary, Mary Sue world, and it's all so tight around us that we forget it's not all that there is.

Take me, for example – I was so used to my family being around me, to my mom greeting me good morning, to standing toes in the sand and knee-deep in the waves of Varadero beach, that only when I fell face-first into the Nevada nowhere, I was out of the Matrix. It's a mirage, you see – your mind gets tricked into believing this magic trick of the routine, the usual, the same – but that's all it is, an illusion, because there's no same or other, and there's no card trick, because joke's on you, you're actually playing poker.”

There was a silence, in which both of them looked wide-eyed at each other. Then Lance added, “Or maybe I'm just a homesick fool who watched the Matrix way too much.” he shrugged.

“No, I think you're onto something,” Keith said seriously, nodding. “We do live in a Matrix.”

Lance's eyes were gleaming rings, looking genuinely hurt now, the act of it left behind. “You're mocking me,” he said, voice small, and leaped off of his seat on top of the machine.

“What? No!” Keith protested, getting up after him.

“Hey, it's cool.” Lance half-shrugged and turned halfway to look at Keith, holding the door to the laundromat open for a moment. “I did say it was nutty.”

“No, what – Lance.” Keith caught up with him outside the laundromat, reaching his hand for his tan shoulder, then settling on placing the tips of his fingers there instead of his palm.

Lance turned around, and Keith realized he didn't actually have anything to say. It _was_ pretty crazy. Lance was crazy. But Keith didn't think it was necessarily a bad thing.

“I liked the Matrix metaphor,” Keith said at last, letting his hand drop to his side.

“Allegory,” Lance corrected.

"The Matrix allegory," Keith repeated. "I liked it. Really. It's more captivating than what some Greek philosopher said ages ago, for one."

Lance examined Keith's expression for any kind of sarcasm. When he realized Keith was serious, he nodded slowly, taking his words in. Then he crouched and sat on the dirt by the road, bare feet resting crossed on the crumbling asphalt. Keith observed him for a moment, then, when Lance looked up at him in wait, sat next to him.

“Just so you know, you really offended the ghost of Plato just now,” Lance mumbled, eyes fixed on the splatter of white stars up front.

The air was cooler now, but the ground was still reminiscent of the day's heat, especially the pavement at their feet. Keith thought it was probably a strange sight – two half-naked boys sitting by the road – but when his gaze was captured on the dome of stars again, he didn't really mind. It seemed almost surreal that it was that same night when he got washed by beer and mud and flowers and managed to lose his dorm keys.

Then again, it wasn't really the same night, technically – he assumed it was probably somewhere around 3 a.m., though he couldn't be sure, as his cellphone had died on him halfway to the laundromat, and he left his only charger in his barrack at the Garrison; maybe his keys, too.

3 a.m. – that meant that soon enough the relentless desert sun will be over their heads, painting the skies soft shades of pink and orange and blue, blurring the horizon with heat waves rising from the ground. Soon enough, the lively stars will be swallowed by the light of day, and Keith would have to be back at Galaxy Garrison for classes. Soon, but not yet.

Keith tried to count the stars and constellations he could name. Only when Lance said his name, he realized he'd been falling asleep, body swaying forward slowly, eyelids closing heavily.

“Hmm?” Keith jerked awake.

“Don't fall asleep on the road,” Lance mumbled, his own eyes half shut, lips curled in a small, peaceful smile.

“You're one to talk,” Keith answered, words slurring and carrying over one another.

“Shhh.” Lance dismissed with a limp motion of his hand. “I'm just resting.”

And despite how much Keith's body ached for sleep, that was all they did. Rested, half-dressed on the side of the road, a malfunctioning neon sign above their head, and a drape of stars above that, the faint hum of washing machines accompanying from behind them.

 

October 2 nd , 2:39 a.m.

“Keith.”

“Yeah?”

“What's your favorite color?”

Pause. Then, “Red.”

“Red,” Lance repeated. “Cool.”

Another moment of quiet.

“What's yours?”

“Hmm.” Lance's voice was raspy and coated with tiredness. “The sky,” he declared after considering. “The sky is my favorite color.”

“You mean blue,” Keith said.

“Does the sky look blue right now?” Lance asked it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Somewhere in the world, it does.” Keith shrugged heavily.

The next pause was longer than the other two, and when Keith turned to look at Lance to see if he was still awake, he found him looking back at him, all heavy lids and sleepy smile.

“What?” Keith asked.

“Who the hell are you, Keith?” Lance said, fondly.

Then he closed his eyes and added in a whisper, “But no, I meant the sky as in, like, every single color the sky could offer. Blue, orange, gray – every one of them.”

“Even this... _grease_ black?” Keith spoke sluggishly into the knee his head was rested upon.

Lance's eyes opened all at once, like Keith had just said a blasphemy.

“Well, of course,” he said, “how else will we see the stars?”

 

October 2 nd , 2:56 a.m.

“Keith,” Lance said, nudging Keith lightly with his elbow. “Hey, Keith.”

Keith hummed in response. His head was rested on his forearms, that were in turn prompted on his knees. He looked up at Lance, and his forehead felt cold after being stuck to his arm for so long.

“Look.” Lance pointed at the sky.

It took Keith some time to understand what he was looking at, but after squinting hard and searching between the sea of stars, he saw it – a faint line slowly descending, a precise brushstroke against the night sky, a tiny detail in a big painting.

“A shooting star,” Lance declared, closing one eye and tracing its trajectory with his pointer finger. Then, he looked right into Keith's eyes, a zealous smile on his lips, and said, “make a wish.”

Lance closed his eyes and clasped his hands against his chest. He quite frankly looked ridiculous, like a modern monk meditating, but the gesture also felt strangely private to Keith, so he turned away to watch the shooting star instead.

The faint line was starting to get swallowed by the horizon, and Keith felt a small ache of miss. He knew it was one of those moments, those moments you felt you'd long for once they're over. Only when the comet was halfway-gone, Keith realized he was making a silent wish.

Lance opened his eyes just as the shooting star disappeared from view.

“What did you wish for?” Keith asked him.

“A meteor shower,” Lance answered, looking hopefully at the horizon. “Oh well, maybe another day. What did you wish for?”

Keith sighed. "To pass my Chemistry test," he admitted.

“Unbelievable.” Lance shook his head. He was smiling.

 

October 2 nd , 3:12 a.m.

“Keith.”

“What?”

“What do you think of cactuses?”

“Cacti.”

“What?”

“The plural of cactus is cacti.”

“That's strange. Well, anyway, what do you think of them?”

“They're nice, I guess?”

“Yeah,” Lance agreed. “They are.”

 

October 2 nd , 3:25 a.m.

“Hey, mullet,” Lance said after a long period of silence. “Laundry is up.”

He was right – the grumble of the washing machines that accompanied their half-rest-half-talk was now gone. They were sitting in a pool of quiet.

Lance got up first, shaking dirt off of his cargo pants and stretching his muscles, which gained him some cracks and knacks. Then he reached his hand out to Keith, and Keith knew it would be rude not to take it. Lance's pull was harsh, or maybe Keith's limbs were weak, because he stumbled a few steps forward onto the road.

“I think my muscles forgot they existed,” Keith said, his voice more tired than he expected.

“Tell me about it,” said Lance, who was now reaching his fingers to the skies. He sounded tired too, maybe even more than Keith.

They stepped back into the _Wash 'n Go_ laundromat, bodies swaying heavily. Lance made his way slowly over to the corner, while Keith crouched before his washing machine, opening the hatch and pulling his clothes out sluggishly.

“These're wet,” Keith mumbled, a little too grumpily perhaps.

“Well, yeah,” Lance said, “the place _is_ called Wash 'n Go.”

“I guess it's time to go, then,” Keith said, struggling inside the wet clothing, feeling the pang of sudden sadness being nailed into his heart. Meddled with his tiredness, it was a dangerous substance.

Lance stopped unloading his washing machine, straightened up, and turned to Keith. Then, in a matter of seconds, he was hugging him.

It was a short hug, the kind you'd give to your friends – or so Keith assumed, as he never hugged his. As he didn't have any friends to hug.

That took Keith aback, because he was no friend of the laundromat stranger to deserve that kind of hug. Any kind of hug, really. But maybe hugs were different for a guy like Lance, a guy whose favorite color was the sky, and who thought life was _The Matrix_ , and who asked random questions about cacti. Maybe hugs were for Lance, what goodbyes were for Keith.

"It was nice talking to you, flower boy," Lance said after he stepped away. "I'll pray for your Chemistry test."

“Thanks,” Keith said. Then, after a moment, he added quietly, “for everything.”

Lance smiled. Keith noticed he had a crooked sort of smile, a smile of unrestrained joy. A wild smile. He was back to being defined by deep shadows and sharp highlights, and Keith thought in the back of his mind that he might try to draw that image tomorrow, or someday, or never.

“I'll mention you,” Lance said, “in my first philosophy book, _Life in The Matrix_ , by Lance McClain. You'll be the first name on my acknowledgments page."

“I'm looking forward to it,” Keith said, his own lips curling into a thin smile. A tired smile. Nothing like Lance's, nothing so lively.

“Thanks. For everything, too,” Lance said.

They stood there for a moment, smiling and not saying a word. How were you supposed to end a night of deep talk with a stranger? _Bye, see you_? Keith didn't know, and he guessed Lance didn't either, because the silence stretched and stretched until the tint of awkwardness began to creep inside the laundromat air.

Luckily, Lance laughed, and any trace of discomfort vanished like magic. Keith wondered if it was all in his head to begin with.

“Okay,” he said in a chuckle. “I'm going to fold my clothes.”

And after a moment, he did, and Keith realized that was his goodbye. Maybe that was the way to end a heart-to-heart with an unknown boy in a lonely laundromat. With no goodbye at all.

Keith didn't stick around to test his hypothesis, seizing the opportunity and walking out the door and back on the empty road, his now-soapy-smelling clothes clinging to his skin.

His mind was a jumbled scribble all the way back. By the time he was face-to-face with the door of his barrack in the Garrison again – the room's keys waiting oh-so-ironically for Keith in the keyhole, his uniform was already dry, courtesy of the Nevada desert.

_See, Lance_ , he thought. _The desert's not so bad_.

 


	4. Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did anyoNE SAY SETTING AND FORESHADOWING?

Wings

 

October 3 rd , 10:50 a.m.

The bell rang, and Keith failed his Chemistry test.

As if it wasn't enough that he was bad at Chem as it is, he could barely keep his eyes open during the test, having had only mere hours of sleep. He didn't understand how Pidge, who had probably stayed up just as late as him the previous night, wrote away at her paper, so fast a fire could burst between her pencil and the test sheet.

Keith handed his test reluctantly to the teacher, not waiting for her to notice how little was written on it. He waited outside the classroom, groups of students pouring out and comparing answers, waited until the last of the students was out.

“Pidge,” he said.

Pidge looked surprised. “Hey, Keith, listen – about yesterday –“

“No, just –“ Keith stopped her, but now that he did, he wasn't sure of what to say, any pre-planned apologies forgotten. “I'm dumb and I'm sorry. Maybe I hate anything that includes social interaction, but you meant well, and I was an ass, and nothing excuses that.”

Pidge was quiet for a moment. Then –

“So what happened with the beer and the dirt yesterday?”

Keith was taken by surprise by that, but he shouldn't have expected anything but random bits of weirdness from Pidge.

"I just – I found a laundromat," he said, sounding much more like a question than a statement.

“Huh,” she said. “And your keys?”

Keith sighed, embarrassed. "They... were in my barrack door."

“Hmm.” Pidge wore a proud smirk, and Keith guessed he deserved that. Then she said, “Are you going to the cafeteria?”

“What?”

“The cafeteria. Are you going? I'm kind of hungry after all that Chem.” Pidge shrugged, not a trace of uncertainty in her voice.

Keith blinked. “sure...?”

“Cool.” she pulled him by his sleeve after her, and led the way to the cafeteria.

She talked and talked all the way there, and Keith couldn't help but feel glad at his accomplishment of a promise. A promise he made in the haze of tiredness, but a promise nevertheless.

And that was how Keith and Pidge became friends. Really friends, this time. And it only took three years, a bad party, and a bad Chemistry test. Pretty simple, in retrospect.

 

October 3 rd , 10:57 a.m.

The cafeteria table wasn't empty.

Keith didn't know why he half-expected it to be – it wasn't like Pidge didn't talk to practically anyone and everyone in the Garrison. But Keith knew it wasn't that easy for her. He knew she wasn't socially graceful just by the way she talked to herself while furiously tapping away at her laptop keyboard, or by the way most of her talk with people was made of only hellos and goodbyes and comparing answers. That was why he expected his lunch break to be just Pidge and him sitting in some distant table while she talked about coding or something, and he ate his lunch quietly. That was why he didn't expect someone to be saving them a seat.

The guy was waving at them. He was big and tall, his skin a dark brown that looked reddish in the warm cafeteria lighting. Keith turned around to see if anyone was standing behind him, but no, the guy was waving at them – at Pidge, to be exact, and she was waving back.

Keith didn't know what to expect when he got to the table, maybe a greeting by ones and zeros since the guy was Pidge's friend, but there was no tech talk whatsoever. In fact, the conversation was oddly... normal.

“Pidge! Guess what? I got the highest engineering score in my whole class. I'm getting a scholarship for engineering for the whole year!” the guy said, spreading his arms sideways, and Keith didn't know whether he was just excited or was expecting a hug from Pidge.

“That's awesome, Hunk!” Pidge said, settling for giving him a high five instead.

Hunk's gaze then shifted to Keith, and Keith felt suddenly awkward and unfit.

As if by cue, Pidge nudged him hard with her elbow.

“Ow,” Keith said.

Pidge ignored. "Hunk, this is Keith. He's failing Chemistry along with me. We're lab partners."

“Cool,” Hunk said, then frowned. “Well, not _cool_ cool, don't fail your classes. But cool as in, nice to meet you.”

“Keith, this is Hunk,” Pidge continued, turning to Keith now. “Hunk is the smartest little shit in the Garrison. He's my team's future engineer. Also, he's a great cook. Hang around him, and you'll never taste the bland food the cafeteria has to offer again.”

Pidge's team. Of course Pidge already had a team planned – she was brilliant, and her teammate Hunk was too, from the looks of it. Usually, the Garrison's teams were formed in the second trimester of junior year – that was why Keith, of all people, had to study Chemistry, of all subjects – your major study subject wasn't determined until the very last moments of the first trimester, which Keith could practically already feel.

It was that tension in the cafeteria air, that feeling of excitement and anxiety that was oh-so-carefully threaded throughout all of the conversations of students, because that was exactly what they weren't – students. They were people with dreams standing at the mercy of people living the dream, each and every one trying to show what they're capable of. More like a military institution than a school, it seemed to Keith sometimes.

He didn't mind, though, aside from the occasional taking commands, but that was an entirely different matter. What he did mind was the obvious threat, the looming danger, and the dangling prizes.

The danger was in getting kicked out. There were only so many seats the Garrison could offer, and everyone sitting in the cafeteria wanted one. Anyone who wanted to study at Galaxy Garrison for real, junior year and up, had to prove themselves. They had to show there was a reason they were studying there, and that they intended to continue.

The threat was the people who wanted your position – a fear creeping up Keith's spine ever since the beginning of the year. He knew what he wanted. Ever since he was a boy, he knew. Keith wanted to be a fighter pilot, and he wanted to be the best one out there. It was less of a want, and more of a need, really – his veins were pumping for it, his muscles were ready for it, just for a seat in a jet's cockpit. He ached for it. He planned on getting it.

Though, for that, he'd have to get the prize. The big prize everyone wanted, the laurel to be worn proudly as a crown by whoever was getting it this year. Tuitions – scholarships – or, as Keith saw them, the only thing keeping him in the Galaxy Garrison so far. He got them every year, and every year he feared of losing them. It was a constant weight on his shoulders, to keep proving himself, but he had to. He had to, had to be this Atlas figure, to hold up the sky, because he had a debt to repay to someone who never even asked for payment. For someone who didn't even care anymore. Keith didn't want to think about it.

“I take it you were chosen as the cyber link of the team?” Keith asked Pidge after they all got their meals.

"Yup," she answered through a full mouth. "But it's still unclear if I'm getting a tuition or not. I'm guessing the Chemistry test didn't really help my chances."

“Shit, you're right,” Keith hissed, his brain recalculating his odds once again with the recent failure in mind.

“You're signing up for a scholarship, too?” Hunk asked.

“Everybody's signing up for a scholarship, Hunk,” Pidge said.

“Yeah, but he's, you know, _him_ ,” Hunk said, which made Pidge raise a single eyebrow in confusion.

Keith, however, only let his face fall serious. He had an idea in mind of what Hunk would follow that with – what everyone followed that with – but when Hunk spoke again, smiling awkwardly, his idea lightbulb was popped like a bubble.

“Oh, you know,” Hunk said, then turned to Keith. “You're the best pilot this place has had for a long time, according to your tests so far. I've seen your flight simulation scores. You're way up on the charts.”

Keith shrugged. That part was right, he guessed – he was in the higher places. But combined with the still-new stress of junior year, the bad Chem test, and the fight over the tuitions, he wasn't all that sure he was going to make it. Besides, Keith knew his safety blanket was gone that year. That as a junior he had to prove himself by himself.

That was what he had told Keith – that he needed to flourish alone – but Keith felt like a wilted flower more than anything. He'd felt like that back then, and he felt the same way now, maybe even worse after he let the poisonous feelings settle, fester in his chest for a while.

“The simulation scores aren't everything,” Keith replied at last. “I'm not sure if I'm going to get that scholarship as a fighter pilot.”

Pidge nodded. “Just so you know, we'd have taken you into our team as our pilot if stuff'd worked out that way.”

“Yeah,” Hunk agreed. “Not that our pilot is bad. Although he certainly flies a little on the wobbly side...”

“Hunk.” Pidge kicked him under the table. “Our pilot is fine. He's taking a flight test right now. God, I hope that idiot makes it, or we're screwed.”

When Keith looked at her with a raised brow, Pidge sighed. “Hunk and I both passed for junior year, but our pilot is still kind of on the fence.”

“But he'll make it!” Hunk said with confidence.

“Yeah,” Pidge said, trying to sound cheerful.

The rest of lunch was quiet and a little grim. Keith didn't feel all that out of place anymore, maybe _because_ it was quiet and a little grim. Besides, quiet and a grim was the atmosphere of the entire cafeteria hall. Students chewing and dreading with their dreams on the line. Quiet and grim.

 

October 3 rd , 2:31 p.m.

The waiting room air was filled with stubborn impatience, and Keith felt no different. Everyone in the room – Keith guessed the thing they all had in common was the K in their last names, as the name chart empty of scores suggested – they were all waiting for the simulation room to empty, and for their chance to show what they had in them. One by one they were called in by one of the instructors, and with every person that went in, the air got tenser and tenser, students coming and going, and the threatening chart of names still remaining clear of grades.

It felt like an eternity until Keith's name got called over the speakers hung above the door to the simulation room. He heaved himself up from the seat he made himself in the corner of the room, and with one stride was out of the waiting area and in an empty, faux cockpit.

Keith had already been in this room, and he'd already done that same simulation he was going to be tested on, but in some unexplained way, it felt like the routine was strange to Keith, new. And it was new, in a way – it was either the door to a new year in the Galaxy Garrison as a junior, or Keith's ticket out. It was a big door to open, and Keith's hand was gripping the handle.

Keith fell on the pilot seat. It was smooth, kind of like the inside of a coat, and he felt like he was being swallowed by it and everything it symbolized. Keith felt small in that chair.

The thing was, he had already seen that chair – he'd already sat on it, on the real chair, in a real cockpit, inside a real jet. It was a long time ago, and felt even longer, which only made Keith's nostalgia stronger and more bitter.

_“It's pretty neat how we can break through the atmosphere just by these buttons and levers, huh?”_ He'd told Keith.

_“That's not true,”_ Keith protested, voice higher and fragile then. _“It's not the buttons or the levers, or the wires or the engine or the metals holding this thing together.”_

He'd laughed at that. Keith kept going, tears in his eyes. _“It's you, Shiro. Please take care of yourself, please.”_

The harsh scrape of the metal door shutting behind Keith woke him of his daydream. The memory had a bittersweet flavor, but all Keith got from it was anger and frustration. Those were different times. Now, he had buttons and levers at his grasp, and he was not letting go.

 

October 3 rd , 2:33 p.m.

The screen in front of him lit up, and just like that, Keith was inside a jet.

“Ready, Kogane?” the speakers said.

“Ready,” Keith answered, tightening his grip on the handrests of the pilot seat.

“Begin simulation.”

 

October 3 rd , 2:45 p.m.

Keith didn't have a home – he never had a home – but behind the control panel, in the pilot seat, inside a jet's cockpit – that felt like home to him. It was familiar and safe and right and absolutely everything he longed for, and Keith thought that was all he wanted from a home.

The flight hadn't been easy. With restless hands he seized the control panel, the corner of his lip twitching, like the tension in his body was electricity, and he was a damn lightning bolt. Tension, but not fear.

Keith didn't fear flight – he knew it. Astrocrafts were a wild beast, but one that Keith knew exactly how to tame. Using the control wheel as reins and his adrenaline as the dangling bait, he steered the make-believe spacecraft to his will, breaking through earth's atmosphere like through the shell of an egg, speeding through the solar system and dodging every single asteroid coming his way.

Keith felt powerful, and in control, and he wanted to scream from just how right it felt to spin and soar and _fly_ , fly so fast the stars around him were nothing but stripes of silver.

In the cockpit, Keith was Icarus, and the sun was passion, and he let it swallow him whole.

 


	5. Teardrop Turn

Teardrop Turn

 

October 4 th , 11:00 a.m.

It was the final day of the trimester's trials, which meant there was not a single second of quiet.

Keith was sitting in the cafeteria again with Pidge. This time, Hunk wasn't there – he was signing his approval for the scholarship he got, according to Pidge – and neither was their pilot, just like the day before.

Keith didn't mind, and neither did Pidge. They talked about their Chemistry scores – they got their tests back before lunch – so most of their concerns were on that matter.

Keith ended up passing, somehow. He was just as stunned as Pidge, who passed his low-but-sufficient grade by nearly ten points.

"The perks of guessing right." Pidge shrugged when Keith brought it up, then a smile crept onto her face. "I'm just glad it's over. Goodbye Chem, _hello_ coding.”

“That's right,” Keith remembered suddenly, straightening up. “The programmer tests – the results –“

“– were posted this morning,” confirmed Pidge, her smile even bigger than before. “Yep.”

“And?” Keith was practically leaning over the table.

Pidge's smirk was one of victory when she pushed her glasses back on the bridge of her nose. “Passed with flying colors,” she said, satisfied. “I'm getting a tuition.”

“That's – wow, Pidge, it's –“

“Absolutely terrifying-slash-awesome? Yeah, I'm aware,” she said, leaning back into her seat. “One less pair of fingers to cross. Now it's just you and my team's future pilot. I'll be signing my scholarship agreement papers later today. I assume by then you'll know your results?”

“Yeah,” Keith said, voice suddenly weak. “I guess I will.”

Pidge kicked him lightly under the table. “You'll pass.”

“You can't know that.”

“I can if it's you.” Pidge kicked him again. “You're probably the best prodigy this place had the right to call his. Maybe only second to Shiro.”

“Shiro has nothing to do with this,” Keith struck suddenly, taken aback by the thunder of his own voice.

Pidge looked surprised, too, gaping at Keith with such confusion that her round glasses slid right back down her nose.

“I mean –” he stuttered, not knowing what to say, how to clean his spilled anger. Then, he got up and left Pidge alone at the cafeteria with a quiet, “Nevermind. I'm not hungry, anyway.”

Every wall looked punchable to Keith on his way to his barrack.

 

October 4 th , 11:13 a.m.

Skipping classes was against the Garrison rules, but Keith knew no one would be studying anything anyway, not when everyone's place in junior year was at stake. And even if they did, it was too late to take some skipped classes into account for the final score of the trimester. So all he did was stay in his room, lie on his bed, and stare at the ceiling.

The previous years, he didn't have a room for himself. The previous years, his roommate was someone he felt lucky to call his brother.

Keith hazily threw one of his pillows to the floor, then fell next to it and began punching it with all he had. He only realized he was doing it when he began missing and hitting the floor, earning a sharp pain in his knuckles. Eventually, he was tired of keeping it up, and he fell back onto the beaten pillow, face first.

He remembered that same memory that popped up in his head the day before, like an old photograph he'd found going through his inventory. It was Shiro's first mission – well, the first after he took Keith under his guardianship, anyway, about four months after.

_“Don't go, please don't go,”_ Keith kept chanting ever since he found out about the upcoming mission, sounding much like a child, even to his own ears.

_“You know I have to,”_ Shiro would always answer.

And then they would watch some movies, the ones that Shiro liked and Keith didn't fully understand, old ones, with themes that could never take place in a modern time. They would snuggle together inside a big blanket, and Keith would feel worried for Shiro's mission, but he would also feel safe, and fall asleep on Shiro's shoulder. He always ended up waking in his own bed, covered by that same blanket. Shiro cared for him like a brother would, like a father would, like no one else would, and though Keith was fourteen at the time, he let him take care of him like a helpless child, maybe to catch up on all those years he lost as a helpless child – maybe because he still _was_ a helpless child.

What a mistake that was. Now Shiro left, really left, not even for a mission, and Keith was left alone in an empty room with no films to watch but his own dusty memories.

The sad thing was, Keith still saw Shiro. Every day he saw him, by the cafeteria, in the halls, like a ghost haunting him. At first, three months back, Shiro would wave at Keith, and Keith would just stare him down. After that, Shiro only smiled at Keith, and Keith would continue to glare with unquenched resentment. And at last, Shiro would only look at Keith sadly. Keith didn't bother to return the look – perhaps because of his anger, perhaps because he was afraid he was going to burst into tears and tear his way across the hall and into Shiro's arms, crying a thousand variations of the same phrase, “I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.”

Just picturing that in his head made Keith angry. That was all he was, these days, pent-up anger, and grievance, and punches. A fire consuming itself.

_Red_ , he remembered out of nowhere. He told Lance, the boy from the laundromat, that red was his favorite color. At the time he didn't think much of it – red was appealing and captivating – but now it seemed to have another meaning, too.

That's what he was, red. Red of fury, and passion, and fire. It felt like cruel irony to think that, to take his own words and twist them into a cruel joke the universe could stab him with.

_“Keith, this is for the best,”_ Shiro had said that day.

_“I don't understand,”_ Keith answered, his voice flat.

_“You need to learn to step away from your comfort zone,”_ Shiro said. _“I would be here for you, now and always – I just need to loosen my grip a little, to let you fly on your own, take the training wheels off. I'm preventing you, in one way or another, to really flourish, evolve into who you wanna be. I'm holding you back, Keith.”_

_“That's ridiculous!”_ Keith said, voice breaking, a little child all over again. _“That's unfair! That's bullshit!”_

_“Keith,”_ Shiro breathed calmly, always calmly. Always collected. _“I'm not just going to leave you. I'll be here for whatever you need me, whenever you –“_

_“Then I need you to go,”_ Keith managed weakly through a choked throat. _“I need you to go now.”_

Both of them were taken aback.

_“Keith –“_

_“Just go!”_

And so he did. And Keith was alone again, alone and small.

Keith remembered reality again only when a single treacherous tear made its way from the corner of Keith's eye and over his temple. It was tempting to start crying again, like he did back then, every day for the next week after Shiro left, but he didn't have the power in him. He wondered what it would have been like to tell Shiro _“don't go, please don't go,”_ instead of urging him to leave. Would he have said _“You know I have to”_? Would he have stayed, for the child Keith once was?

Keith kept picturing maybes and what-ifs, but none of them felt real. The only scenario that did was the one that did happen, and Keith didn't want to picture that one – he's seen it enough times already, rewatched it like one of Shiro's movies, over and over again, until every word and every gesture was embedded into his brain. Much like Shiro's movies, the plot was muddled and unclear to Keith.

 

October 4 th , 5:57 p.m.

Keith didn't remember falling asleep – only waking up on the floor to the sound of knocks.

It was late, nearly six, but he didn't expect otherwise. The pillow he was lying upon felt wet, so he got up to check the mirror for dry drool, a pathetic decoration to the pathetic way he felt. Instead, he found traces of dry tears, their trails pale, like fading scars. Keith wiped his cheeks harshly and went for the door.

Some painful part of him wanted it to be Shiro. It wasn't, though, and most of Keith was relieved.

“Pidge,” he said, voice groggy with sleep.

“Gosh, Keith, you look awful.” she shook her head disapprovingly.

“Thanks,” Keith mumbled.

“You're welcome.”

An awkward silence took over for a beat. Pidge crossed her arms. Keith shifted in his stance.

“I'm sorry about earlier,” he sputtered. “I didn't mean to –“

“Forget it.” Pidge gestured with the back of her hand. “Besides, two apologies from Keith Kogane in the span of a few days? That's gotta be, like, a world record.”

Keith combed his fingers through his stiff hair awkwardly. “Okay, I deserved that.”

“Hey, if I insult your hair and you insult me back, d'you think I might get a third sorry?” She was having fun with this – it was evident by the large smile smeared across her face, and the usual way her eyes narrowed when she was messing with Keith.

“Is this why you came to my barrack?” Keith asked, letting his shoulders drop with a sigh.

“Oh! No, it's six o'clock. The pilots' results should be up by now. Thought I should come get you.” Pidge punched him lightly below the shoulder.

Keith was out the door within a moment, pulling Pidge after him by the sleeve, not even caring to complain about her friendly violence.

“Where?” he asked.

“Study hall – jeez, Keith, slow down!”

Keith could have navigated by sound alone – as he got farther from the barracks and closer to the study hall, the noise got steadily louder, until the chatter was unbearable and Keith was standing in front of a cloud of students, tripping over one another, standing on the tips of their toes and craning their neck, all to get a good view on the charts hung onto the news corkboard.

A sudden anxiety began eating up at Keith, but he, with Pidge's encouragement, snuck into the crowd and began making his way through, to the board. As he got nearer, he could catch glimpses of letters – words – names. Everyone kept pushing each other, and Keith was stepped on multiple times, but he kept coming through.

Then, when he was a certain distance from the board, something strange happened – everyone turned around to look at him. As if by magic, a small path to the board was carved, a path Keith could squeeze into. He stumbled forward, hair in his face, until he was staring at the scores, and the scores were staring back at him.

And there he was, right under the title _Fighter Pilots_. _Kogane_ , written black on white, _with 653 points_.

A victorious smile threatened to possess his mouth, but Keith wouldn't let it – not yet. The prize wasn't won with ease, or else it wouldn't be a prize. Keith needed to know his competition.

Beneath him, _Sheinfield, 648 points_.

Beneath that, _Polak, 642 points_.

And beneath that – _McClain, 639 points_.

Keith almost kept reading, but something felt different about that one. It was off. It was familiar. He'd heard it before, Keith knew. Where had he heard it before?

The chatter was a big smoke screen in Keith's brain, preventing him from thinking, from remembering. It was on the tip of his tongue, like a flavor he couldn't name, or a smell he recalled vaguely.

Then, _tap tap tap_ from behind Keith, behind the other students, too. A fast sound, a growing rhythm – the sound of a runner.

“Let me through, let me through!” almost as if on cue, the voice cut the jumbled talk, making its way through the mounds of people in a run. “Let me see please – ow! – let me pass.”

Keith turned around, and there they were, standing face to face, a breath away from one another. They each looked more surprised than the other, and it seemed the babble of the students was just static around them, like a radio tuned to the wrong frequency, like a TV broadcasting nothing but white-noise.

Keith didn't know how much time they stood there, frozen, staring at each other, but it felt like ages. At last the boy blinked, and his face was kind and warm under the hall's soft lighting, all so different from the injustice the cold, stark light did his amber skin that other night, at the laundromat.

The laundromat boy.

_McClain_. Lance McClain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one marks the end of the first part of the story - it's mostly Garrison AU from now on!! also, i kind of adore the shiro & keith arc, so bear with me, it's going to be pretty nice. :)


	6. Paper Planes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fair warning: Iverson is kind of a dick.  
> also - the major original characters tag is there for a reason *winks with both eyes*

**to Kiss the Skies**

 

Paper Planes

 

October 4 th , 6:00 p.m.

“You,” Keith muttered; it was all he could say.

“Me? _You!_ ” Lance threw back, just as lost. “What're you – what is this?”

He looked Keith up and down and added a freaked, “You _go_ here?”

“Well, yeah! Didn't you see my uniform back at the laundromat?” Keith's hands were now gesturing intensely, cutting against the air and pointing towards his attire. He sounded crazed, a bat in daylight.

“Uh, it was covered in mud!” Lance's arms were flailing, too. He kept scanning Keith with his eyes, like he didn't know what to make of him. “You go here!” he repeated.

“Do _you_?” Keith screamed.

“Yeah, obviously!” Lance shouted back.

They would have drawn a lot of attention if not for all the noise already claiming the hall all around them by students eager to see the charts.

Lance seemed to have realized he hadn't done the thing he came for, and held one finger up in the air at Keith – _wait_. He glanced at the chart on his left, then yelped, blush spreading across his face, and then looked back at Keith.

“Well?” he said, zealous.

“Well, what?”

"Which one of them is you?" Lance asked, smile never faltering.

Keith's lips fell open, but no sound came out. He didn't want to tell him, he realized all of a sudden. He much preferred to keep his anonymity as the laundromat boy, or _mullet boy_ , or god, even _flower boy_. But not as Keith Kogane. Not as Shiro's adopted brother, Keith Kogane, the image of him that everyone in the Garrison had in mind. Not as loner Keith Kogane, not as orphan Keith Kogane, not as everything he didn't want to remember about himself.

But Lance placed a finger behind his ear, probably thinking Keith had answered him and the horrid noise swallowed his words, and Keith had to speak, despite every part of him begging him otherwise.

“Kogane,” he said, quiet, hoping to god Lance wouldn't hear and wouldn't ask again.

Lance turned back to the charts, though, and then back to Keith once again, and then he smiled, and his slanted smile was honey on his face. That raised nostalgia onto the surface of Keith's mind, even if the last time he saw Lance was only a few days ago, and even though they didn't really know each other at all. Maybe it wasn't nostalgia, he thought, just as Lance leaped out of the crowd of people, signaling Keith to follow. Maybe it was potential nostalgia, like a picture his brain saved for later, when it's old and sweet.

Keith was trying to weave himself between the screaming students, and Lance caught his hand. Not his hand, exactly, more so the tips of his fingers, and he pulled him away from the mass of people, just like he pulled him to his feet that night at the laundromat.

When they were both away from the flock, Lance seized him by the shoulders and stared, smiling, like Keith was some old acquaintance Lance hadn't seen in years. It felt strangely private, undeserved, like the hug he gave him when Keith was about to leave the laundromat.

“Keith Kogane,” he said, his huge smirk managing to grow even larger.

“Lance McClain,” Keith replied in the same spirit, and Lance laughed again – a fresh, wild laugh.

“Didn't think I'd ever see you again,” Lance said, one of his hands patting Keith's shoulder firmly. “Looks like we're classmates, mullet.”

“Looks like,” Keith confirmed.

“Well, look who decided to show,” Pidge's voice carried louder than the talk in the hall. She walked over casually with her arms crossed, shaking her head. “About time.”

“I was taking a shower.” Lance frowned, the tops of his cheeks glowing pink again in embarrassment.

“Good to know a shower is more important than your future,” Pidge said. “Or, you know, our team's.”

“Wait, hold up,” Keith interjected before Lance could reply and a debate would catch fire between Pidge and him. “What do you mean, _your team?_ ”

“Oh, sorry, I haven't introduced you guys,” Pidge said. “Lance, this is Keith. _He_ doesn't trade his future for showers. Keith, this is Lance, my team's future pilot – you know, the one that's been retaking the flight test for a week now.”

“I was trying to perfect my score!” Lance protested. “Besides, I already know this guy. Although I have to say he looks more majestic covered in flowers. What I wanna know, is how _you two_ know each other.”

“We're lab partners,” Pidge answered simply.

Lance's eyes squinted suspiciously. He looked at Pidge, then at Keith, and Keith resisted the urge to close his eyes and hide his face. It didn't take much to understand Lance recalled their conversation, and was now connecting the dots. But what perhaps was even more embarrassing to Keith was the fact that Lance actually remembered the woes Keith had told him about that night.

“Lab partners,” Lance repeated. “Huh.”

Pidge shrugged, not making much of the comment. Then the pocket of her pants flashed orange for a second.

“That's probably Hunk,” she said. “He should be waiting for us in the cafeteria. I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving.”

 

october 4 th , 6:06 p.m.

“This is cheating, you know,” Lance said to Keith, still smiling.

They were walking a few steps back behind Pidge while she was texting Hunk. The hallways were filled with hungry students, students satisfied with their score, and students who didn't get their wish. Keith caught one girl crying into her friend's shoulder.

“What's cheating?” Keith asked.

“You being here,” Lance said. His tone was serious, but he was grinning. “That was part of our non-disclosure agreement – sharing stuff with a stranger, then never seeing him again. You're cheating.”

“I could say the same thing about you,” Keith said, also smiling now, or maybe he started smiling before. He wasn't completely sure.

“Guess you could.” Lance shrugged. “Guess we'll have to keep watch on each other, keep any secrets from spilling.”

“I guess so,” Keith answered.

They looked into each other's eyes, stern. Then they burst out laughing.

“Seriously, though,” Lance said, half-talk, half-chuckle. “This is so weird. How do you go here? How did I not know? How?”

“If I were you, I'd be more worried about the upcoming year,” Keith said, though it was hard to mean it, what with how contagious Lance's enthusiasm and smile were. “We're fighter pilots now – that's not going to be easy.”

Lance shuddered theatrically, making a series of disgusted noises, then swatting the air in a canceling motion. "Let's leave that for the cockpit, shall we? We passed the first trial – we should celebrate!"

“The hardest part is still ahead, McClain.” Keith crossed his arms, a playful eyebrow raised, and a smile spreading on his face. _McClain_. Lance's name wasn't a familiar taste in his mouth, but it was a nice one.

Lance flicked his finger against Keith's head. “Whatever, flower boy,” he said, and his smile was as crooked as ever.

 

October 4 th , 6:11 p.m.

As it turned out, celebrating with food wasn't only their idea.

The cafeteria, which usually didn't reached full capacity until eight o'clock, was now buzzing with life and talk. No staff member had told any of the students to come, as there were no official celebrations held by Galaxy Garrison to its newest official cadets, and yet there they all were, flooding the place in swarms of people.

It was near impossible to find Hunk in all that mess, but Pidge managed to somehow, sneaking through the crammed crowds and the many tables like an electronically enhanced mole, following the directions her phone screen threw at her, and leading them to a table just big enough for the four of them, where Hunk was already waiting.

“Well?” he asked, his eyes darting between all of them.

“Meet the Galaxy Garrison's newest, bestest fighter pilots,” Lance declared, pride slick in his voice.

He placed his elbow on Keith's shoulder, leaning on him, and Keith didn't know what to do, how to move, _if_ to move at all. He knew that by other people's standards he was overreacting, he knew damn well, but he just couldn't figure out how Lance could just touch other people, feel the heat of their life force in his palms, and carry about his day. Contact wasn't just contact for Keith, and that was why he didn't get Lance.

Keith didn't understand, because he could never do that. He wasn't about hugs and shoulder grips and leaning on someone, like they couldn't just decide to move an inch and drop you to the ground. Keith was about punching, and kicking, and using his palms to push people to the relentlessness of gravity, not to save them from it. And so he stood there, set in place, until Lance decided to go pick up food along with Pidge, and left Keith at the table with Hunk.

“Told you you'd pass,” Hunk said, smiling. He looked like a proud brother, the kind that Keith didn't have anymore. “Top of the charts?”

“Yes,” Keith confirmed, though he didn't like saying it – like it was a curse of bad luck to say it, like the next time he'd look at the charts his name would be crossed off with half of his points gone under the cruel claws of karma or jinx.

“Called it.” Hunk leaned back. Then, his eyes focused on something behind Keith. “Oh – hi – um, sir.”

Keith turned around. As if on cue to Keith's thoughts of lost brothers, like a falcon looming above him, or the shadow of a dark cloud of an upcoming storm, Shiro stood there.

 

october 4 th , 6:15 p.m.

“Is this about school?” Keith asked flatly.

Shiro and he were standing in one of the empty corners of the cafeteria to avoid the noise. Keith didn't mind the noise – it was Shiro he wanted to avoid.

Shiro's eyes were hard to decipher, dark and shiny. “Keith –“

"Just answer me," Keith shot, not daring to look up at Shiro, not daring to risk his throat closing up or his eyes watering. Not daring to risk the brittle control he still maintained over his own emotions.

Shiro was quiet for a second. “Yes,” he answered then. “Management wants to talk to you about a tuition for your junior year. You've been selected for a scholarship, Keith, a scholarship as a fighter pilot.”

It was only then that Keith looked up, to find Shiro smiling a rather sad sort of smile, the kind you left for memorial days and bittersweet endings. It wasn't unfit – their story was nothing but bittersweet, Keith knew.

“Congratulations,” Shiro said, and as the moments passed, his smile got painted more and more strained. “I'm really happy for you, Keith.”

“Where.”

“What?” Shiro's sad expression was replaced by a confused one.

“Where do I need to go to sign?” Keith asked through a clenched jaw, still avoiding his eyes, still avoiding his presence.

Shiro stared at him for a moment, unreadable as before. “office, money management. And, Keith –”

Shiro placed his hand on Keith's shoulder – a familiar touch made cold, a familiar person made estranged – before Keith could run off.

“I'm proud of you,” he said. “Really.”

Keith only shook his shoulder as a response, causing Shiro's hand to drop to his side. He left the cafeteria painfully slow; and then he ran.

 

October 4 th , 6:21 p.m.

Keith ran, and ran, and ran. He ran fast, not stopping even when his lungs felt like fire. He ran away from the cafeteria crowd, from Shiro, from everything.

He only stopped when he turned a sharp corner, and nearly tripped onto a girl. She looked just as surprised as him, though she collected herself before he did, her expression falling seriously.

She had straight brown hair up to her shoulders, and bangs that reached her round brown eyes. She looked like a scarecrow, and she was glaring at Keith, sizing him up, like she was a lioness and he was prey and the halls were a savanna made battlefield.

“Kogane,” she said, and her voice was low and precise, a slick web, or a venom in a bottle of wine. She looked deceiving. Treacherous.

"Have we met?" Keith asked, no trace of emotion in his voice.

They have met, he knew. Not directly, but Keith had seen her, walking in the halls, or sitting in the cafeteria, or going into the simulation room after everyone had already left, just like he often did. He had never talked to her, but he knew she was a junior, just like him, and just like him, set being a fighter pilot as a target.

Keith expected some snarky remark for a response. Instead, he was met with her extended hand, and Keith thought that he'd rather get slapped with an insult. Something about a handshake with the scarecrow girl screamed deal with the devil, and the fact that Keith couldn't name exactly what was even more peculiar.

“Andrea Sheinfield,” she said, decisive.

Keith stared at her hand for a moment longer before clasping it. She held tight, giving a firm shake, never tearing her eyes off of his for a second.

 _Sheinfield_. She got 648 points on the charts, the second highest after him, and she was coming right from the hall to the office. It didn't take a genius to put the pieces together. She was competition with a scholarship having her back, and that meant trouble, one way or another.

“See you in class,” she said, leaving as fast as she had come, her back straight and her head up high.

“Can't wait,” Keith muttered to the empty hall.

 

October 5 th , 9:05 a.m.

If the talk before the chart results was chaotic, the talk in the waiting hall to the simulation room was unbearable. Everyone was talking about their instructor for junior year, whom all the students from the previous years had claimed to be tough and uncompromising, or about the new skills they were looking forward to learning, or about flying an actual astrocraft instead of the simulation jet they practiced on so far.

Keith was the only one who wasn't babbling his mouth off, sitting in his usual corner with his head rested against the wall. No, he noticed – that wasn't true. Andrea Sheinfield, in the other corner of the room, was standing alone, stern, and not saying a word. She was also looking right at Keith.

Keith would have felt under threat, would have felt like there was a target on his forehead for only the scary girl to see, and probably would have returned the stare, if not for Lance McClain running into the room, gasping for air in front of him.

“Hey,” he said in between breaths. “I'm not late, am I?”

“Just in time.” Keith gestured with his head at the entrance to the waiting hall.

Lance gulped and straightened up. Keith rose to his feet next to him. The man who had entered looked at all the people in the room with one eye shut, and the other one peeled open. He was every bit as fierce as the students' description, and probably scarier than that. Telling rumors of that instructor, of the way he looked at all of the students, with words, were as useless as trying to describe color to a blind person – you could never begin to cover it.

"You have all reached the most elite class in this institution," he said, that's it, straight away, no hellos, no introductions. "Possibly the most wanted in the entirety of the continent. You have done so by passing various tests and trials to prove yourself."

He glanced over the entire class again. Next to Keith, Lance, like most of the other students, flinched slightly when his gaze fell on him. When the instructor looked at Keith, Keith didn't turn away from his stare.

“Congratulations,” he spat, voice croaky and vicious. “It means nothing here. In this class, you'll let go of your make-believe spaceships” – he gestured at the door to the simulation room degradingly, like it was an embarrassment for him to just be standing next to it – “and learn to fly _real_ jets. In this class, you'll come to know the starry sky just as well as you know the solid ground. In this class, you'll find no compromises. If any of this doesn't sound up your alley, the cargo pilot class is next door.”

He gestured towards the door of the room. No one left. No one backed off from the challenge.

“Anyone and everyone who stays in my class for the rest of this school year will kiss the skies, and they will do so under my terms,” he said. “I'm commander Iverson. You will refer to me with _sir_. You will speak only when I grant you permission to speak, do only what I instruct you to do. Anyone who is willing to test me, will face the proper consequences. In this class, you will all be an extension of me, and all astrocrafts will be an extension of you. Is that clear?"

“Yes,” the class answered in unison.

Commander Iverson frowned, an ugly, wrinkly frown, his jaw clenched so hard it seemed like it was going to break. “Yes, _what?_ ”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” he tilted his head back, a shadow of a smile on his face, and that was more terrifying to Keith than a hundred of his frowns or a thousand of his speeches.

 

October 5 th , 9:14 a.m.

The first thing Iverson had them do wasn't to fly in the simulation room, nor study a fat textbook's explanation of the inner workings of an astrocraft. In fact, Iverson didn't make them learn flight at all. Instead, he took them to the Garrison's tarmac.

The area was empty of people, save for their class, and full of empty jets that were obviously not in use for a long time. It seemed as though they were in a different world to Keith, the desert heat never settling around them. The sky appeared a luminous gray above his head, like it was going to rain. A wind – both hot from the past summer, and cold from the upcoming winter – blew, tugging at the seams of the white and orange jackets all the students wore. Keith noticed Lance clutching to his, slightly shivering.

Iverson stood in front of them, holding a pile of papers.

“These are copies of your information sheets,” he explained. “They hold your name and all your data, as well as your agreement to commit to Galaxy Garrison and all the challenges it offers.”

Iverson held the papers up high, then dropped them on the ground without so much as the blink of an eye. “Find your name. Get your paper. Form a line. You've got thirty seconds, starting five seconds ago.”

It was a mess. Everyone launched into the messy pile, grabbing and pushing and searching like rabid animals. By the time Keith found his paper, he was sure more than a minute had passed by the look on Iverson's cruel face. At last, a line was formed between all of the students.

“That was selfish, and crude, but I didn't expect otherwise.” he shook his head, looking down at all of them. “If you want to be fighter pilots, you'll have to learn to be efficient, and graceful, and resourceful. You'll have to make quick decisions, and make them good, or else they'll be your last. Most importantly, you'll have to know the environment, your conditions, your surroundings.”

Iverson picked up the sole paper left on the asphalt, turned to look at one of the jets parked dusty on the tarmac ground, then looked down at the soiled sheet in his hands. He began folding it, fast, careful, precise. Within seconds he held an exact replica of the real jet. He held it up in front of the aircraft, silhouette matching silhouette, then using no more than two fingers and a gentle motion of his wrist, he threw the paper plane. Keith never saw it land.

“You have your reference,” Iverson said firmly. “I'll be back by the end of the class to judge your aircrafts.”

And just like that, he turned around and walked away, leaving a confused, muttering fighter class behind. No one moved, no one broke the line Iverson set them in. Keith exchanged a look with Lance, who shrugged his shoulders at him, as clueless as Keith himself was, as everyone else was. Some fighter class.

It was a long stretch of doing nothing before someone said, “This is some kind of a joke, right?”

“Does it look like it? Does it look like he ever jokes?” it was Andrea Sheinfield who shot back.

The class fell into silence. Everyone looked down at their papers, as if they held the answers. Keith didn't want to look at his.

"Guess we should do what he told us, then," Lance said, shrugging again, and wandered off to the smallest jet standing on the tarmac.

Andrea was the second one to leave, taking the opposite direction. A group of students followed her, a couple others went over to surround a different jet, and Keith walked away in Lance's direction.

“You know paper folding by any chance?” Lance asked him when Keith sat down next to him on the concrete.

Lance was squinting at the astrocraft through his paper, like guidelines would appear there by magic to instruct him how to fold.

“I was hoping you do,” Keith answered, squinting at the plane.

It was an ancient thing, khaki-green and rusting, a round roof which turned into a sharp spike at the sides. Its wings were thin and wide, taking the shape of a guitar pick, if guitar picks were huge and aerodynamic.

“Pfft, yeah right.” Lance was folding the paper lightly, trying to understand how to tackle the mission, trying to envision the form the folds of the jet would take on his paper if translated correctly. “You ran off last night.”

Keith felt like he was shrinking in his spot. He did run – he ran because of Shiro – and he couldn't ever explain that, not to Lance, not to anyone. “I – I had to sign the tuition –“

“Hey, it's cool.” Lance chuckled. He was bringing two of the paper's corners together. “So does that mean you got a scholarship?”

Keith stared at the paper in his hands. One of the lines read, “ _Freshman year: tuition. Sophomore year: tuition. Junior year: tuition._ " with Keith's signature next to every one of them. Freshman and sophomore years had Shiro's signature next to Keith's. In a matter of seconds Keith began folding his paper, too, out of frustration and impatience more than anything else.

“I did,” he confirmed. “did you?”

Lance seemed frozen for a moment, then he looked back at his half-finished airplane, fidgeting with its corners. “I was offered one,” he said quietly, “but I turned it away.”

Keith didn't ask any more on the subject, even though he was curious to know why anyone would turn away the fighter class scholarship – he could tell by the way Lance's hands pinched the folds as a distraction that it wasn't something he was happy to talk about.

Then Lance looked at Keith, and frowned like nothing happened. “You're copying!”

“No, I'm not,” Keith denied. It was a lie – he really was copying, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Lance's unfinished jet and making mental notes for his own.

“Turn your prying eyes away from my masterpiece!” Lance shielded his paper airplane with his whole body, which made an unexpected laugh escape from Keith, emerging like bubbles to the surface.

“Come on, let me see!” he tried to glance over Lance's shoulder.

“Never!” Lance got up, still hiding his paper.

“Lance, please, I suck at this!”

“Never!” he repeated, and ran off to the other side of the airplane.

Keith ran after him, his badly-made plane in his hands. Lance noticed, and ran again, Keith circling after him at first, then halting in place for Lance to find him in his next lap around the jet. After seconds he did, then yelped and ran the opposite way, followed by Keith, only to end up right where they began, Keith standing victorious with both the wrinkled papers in his hands.

“Cheater, I'm telling on you to Iverson.” Lance's face was a comical combination of both a frown and a smile.

Keith studied the careful folds of Lance's paper airplane in contrast to his own, then handed it back to him with a sigh. “Whatever, it looks nothing like the real thing anyway.”

“You take that back, copycat!” Lance nudged him with his elbow, then furrowed his brow at the plane in his hands and groaned in frustration, holding the paper between two of his fingers like he was holding trash he didn't want to touch. “How is this supposed to train us to be fighter pilots, anyway?”

Keith shrugged, unfolding his paper and trying again. “Go figure.”

“I've heard that the programming and engineering instructors are much nicer,” Lance continued, “though I'll have to ask Pidge and Hunk about that. And anyway, I'd rather have the instructor of the now-sophomore year over this Iverson dude any day.”

“And who's that?” Keith asked, before he could stop himself, before he could figure the answer out on his own.

“Shiro,” Lance replied simply, too focused on his plane to see Keith's face dropping. “Hey, do you think it's more accurate now – Keith? Are you okay there, buddy?”

“I'm fine,” Keith said, shaking his head, as if that would get rid of his betrayed, lonely feelings. As if that would make the blood roaring in his ears flow any less fast, any less angry.

Shiro was an instructor. He led other people to success, to knowledge and control over astrocrafts, just as he had led Keith, just Keith, in the past. Was anything Shiro taught him private knowledge? Did all of those sophomores get the treatment of family – of brotherhood? Was Keith nothing to Shiro anymore?

“Keith.”

“I'm fine,” Keith repeated.

“It doesn't look that way.”

Lance gestured to the paper Keith was holding. It was neatly folded on one side, but completely crumpled up on the other, under Keith's fist. Keith straightened out the sheet between his palms with slick, slow motions, feeling suddenly sick.

“Just got distracted, that's all,” Keith said, not believing his own words.

Lance stared at him for a long moment, and Keith felt the back of his neck heating up. Why did thinking about Shiro, the person he'd lost to circumstances mess him up so much? He wasn't even in control of his own hands, how could he begin to gain control over his emotions?

At last, Lance turned away, forming the tail of his paper plane. “Okay,” he said softly, “but if you need another laundromat talk, just say the word. I can be your laundromat pal – hey! Your laundromate.”

Keith scoffed. “That's terrible.”

“Laundroman? _Wash 'n G_ – um – gush-about-your-feelings?”

Keith shuddered, letting his airplane fall on his lap and covering his ears with his hands. “Please, no more.”

"We'll work on it," Lance said at last, stopping the torturous puns. "But my point still stands. Now let's finish these things before Iverson finds our lame results and assigns us with one paper plane per day for the rest of our lives."

 

October 5 th , 11:23 a.m.

“Jeez, what's got your panties in a twist?” Pidge asked as Keith and Lance plumped onto the cafeteria table in unison.

“Oh, nothing,” Lance answered, voice drenched with sarcasm, his eyes narrowed and twitching. “Only our crazy instructor not allowing us to leave the class before we managed to create functioning paper airplanes that look like the real ones lying on the tarmac?”

Pidge cocked a brow. “Not a great instructor, then?”

"He's crazy!" Lance repeated, slamming his fists on the table and earning some looks from a group of students walking by.

Keith sighed. “It's true.”

“See?” Lance gestured at Keith's face, and Keith had to lean to the right to avoid getting smacked in the cheek by his hand. “Even Keith thinks so!”

“Is that all you had to do?” Hunk asked. “Fold paper airplanes?”

“Yes!” Lance exclaimed. “Except they had to be exact replicas of actual astrocrafts, _and_ they had to fly for more than a second. He said something along the lines of, ' _To fly a spacecraft, you must understand its inner workings. To fly a metal astrocraft, you must first learn to fly a paper astrocraft. Har har, I'm a piece of shit._ '”

“I... really doubt he said that,” Hunk interjected.

“Well, that's what it sounded like.” Lance crossed his arms, petty.

“Whew.” Pidge huffed, leaning back in her seat. “My instructor is nothing like him, I guess. I got our PE instructor from freshman year, Mrs. Flores! Apparently she teaches coding, too – she gave us candy after we've introduced ourselves, and –“

Pidge stopped once she noticed the death stare Lance was giving her. She shrank in her chair. “Uh, I mean, she's okay, I guess.” she shrugged, pretending to chug from her bottle of water to avoid Lance's glare.

Hunk didn't seem to notice it. "I got someone new," he said, smiling enthusiastically. "He's called Mr. Lee, and he said he wants us to be hard-working, but not to overwork ourselves. He says that is even worse than not doing our best. Also, he let us have a five-minute meditation before his lecture – ow!"

Hunk rubbed his arm where Pidge struck him lightly with the back of her hand. Her eyes were darting between Hunk to Keith and Lance.

“Oh – sorry,” he mumbled, his cheeks reddening.

“It's fine, you can talk about your instructors,” Keith said. “It's not like we don't already know ours is the worst. We'll handle it.”

"Uh, speak for yourself!" Lance protested, jabbing his pointer finger in the air at both Hunk and Pidge. "I want all of you to pretend to share my sorrows."

Pidge rolled her eyes. Hunk sighed. Keith let his forehead drop to the table with a groan. It was going to be a long year.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more stuff for the shiro arc i guess!! also, not to toot my own horn, but i'm kinda proud of sheinfield as a character 8)


	7. Quinn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cough* cue slow burn + tragic backstory *cough*

Quinn

 

October 12 th , 5:48 p.m.

The next few days all consisted of the same thing – Keith going for breakfast, then waiting in the Garrison's tarmac along with the rest of the fighter class, Lance nearly coming in late, Iverson arriving with fierce commands, and a new paper they had to fold every day.

The second day it was a sheet containing the printed out lyrics of the Galaxy Garrison's hymn – Keith didn't even know it _had_ a hymn; the third it was pages with different astrocraft engines, something Keith knew Hunk would gasp at if he saw how Keith crumpled it up into a shape that could never be called an astrocraft, probably not modern art either. The fourth day, Keith didn't remember what the paper was about, but he did remember that by then, they were forming the straight line Iverson wanted them to be in within moments, and that by then Iverson had grown tired of their constant faliures and so most of those pages ended up as paper balls on the ground when they were handed to him. All of them, in fact – all but one.

Andrea Sheinfield, master fighter pilot, was also an expert in Origami, apparently. Each day she crafted a different plane, and each day Iverson would launch it, and each day it would fly away ever-so-gracefully. The other students noticed, of course, and began flocking around her to learn her secrets. Even Lance peeked one time, but after not understanding how she could craft such a perfect replica, he slumped right back to his spot besides Keith with a sigh.

Every day after the daily torturous routine, Keith, with Lance by his side, would fall into his seat in the regular table in the cafeteria. Every day, without miss, they would endlessly talk about how bad Iverson was. Every day, Pidge would sigh, and Hunk would pat on their back sympathetically, and Keith would leave to his barrack, practice on folding pieces of paper to the form of realistic aircrafts, then angrily throw them against the wall when they wouldn't hold a moment in the air, sometimes skipping dinner altogether, trying to figure out why his planes came out either airborne but unrealistic, or realistic but not airborne, or, as it was most of the time – both.

This day was different. Keith was throwing around one of his flyable airplanes, a good distraction, when there was a knock at his door. Warily, he let the plane drop and opened the door just a crack.

Blue eyes. Amber skin.

“Lance.” Keith pulled the door open.

“Hey man.” Lance was leaning against the doorframe with his forearm, a pained smile on his face. “D'you mind tagging along for a fun and exciting walk?”

Keith jerked his brow. “You're scaring me.”

Lance sighed, letting his posture drop. “Okay, fine. I need to do my laundry and a couple other things, and since we're – what was it? – laundro-buddies or whatever that was, you're obligated to come with.” he looked serious for a moment, then he stretched his mouth in a smile, clasping his hands together. “Please?”

They had a stare-off, Lance holding that ridiculous smile of his, until Keith rolled his eyes, paper planes in mind. “It's not like I have anything better to do.”

“Great!” Lance clapped a single time, his smile turning into more of a grin. “You should probably bring spare clothes this time if you're doing your laundry, though. This time, Wash 'n Go can wait for _us_.”

 

October 12 th , 5:57 p.m.

The road stretched out in rough brushstrokes of warm tones of reddish-brown, Keith's shadow, and Lance's next to it, appearing as a long, dark figure on the black asphalt.

Lance led the way – he knew it better than Keith, who had previously found it only thanks to Google Maps. His shadow went before Keith's, and a circle was dropping and scurrying back up in its hand.

“Okay, what's the thing with that yo-yo?” Keith asked.

“Hmm?” Lance asked, being distracted by the bouncing toy. “Oh.”

Keith expected a sentence-long answer on how he found it ditched on the ground and kept it – but Lance smiled fondly at the yo-yo and held it tight in his hand, like it was projecting a memory before Lance that only he could see.

"This old thing?" he said, sweeping his thumb over the plastic shell of the yo-yo. "My brother won it – I think it was at a fair, or a theme park, or something. Maybe not, I don't remember exactly, but somehow, it got into his hands, and he kept it.

It's a funny story, actually – my mom tried to get rid of the thing for ages, since Maik – that's my brother – was three at the time, and never learned how to properly use this thing. He kept hitting himself with it, the poor thing. He also hit the rest of us on occasion – wasn't fun, by the way.”

Lance laughed, beginning to bounce the yo-yo anew. “The damn thing brought more trouble than good, so my mom tried to get rid of it in every way she could – throw it in the trash, bury it in the yard – and each time it would” – Lance let the yo-yo dip until it almost reached the ground, catching it faster – “bounce right back. It was mostly because Maik found it every time, but we thought it was a sign – either a cursed yo-yo, or a lucky charm. When I left Cuba, I took it with me. That was the only way to get rid of it – get rid of me along with it. It's a good reminder of home.”

There was a period in which Keith walked by Lance in silence, only the scratch of the yo-yo string against the plastic wrap providing them with background music. He wondered what Lance was like back then, amongst his family, when the nostalgia the yo-yo radiated to him was a memory fresh in his mind. When Keith looked up at Lance, he wore a sad sort of smile.

“You're far from it,” Keith said, quietly. “Cuba, I mean. Your home.”

“My home,” Lance repeated, a soft mumble, syllables slurring over each other slightly, blurred. He was looking straight ahead, unreadable. “I am far. Are you?”

The question took Keith aback in a blow, though he knew he should have expected it. He blinked, then shrugged, and his mouth felt dry when he opened it to answer. “Where I grew up – I'm far from that. A thousand miles away,” he said. “But my home, I'm not far from it.”

It was true – his home had a smooth seat, a control yoke, two wings, and a strong engine. His home was doing what he did best, flying, and the only place he could do that was in Galaxy Garrison, even if all that had been so far was a film inside a simulation room, even if he'd never flown an actual astrocraft. It was that potential that his future held, of Keith in a jet among the stars, that had that familiar pull. That was his home.

“I have nothing to look for in the place where I grew up, in Texas,” Keith added flatly after a beat, a bitter taste in his mouth. “There's nothing for me there.”

He didn't have to look up from his boots to see that Lance was looking at him, but he – thankfully – didn't ask any more on the matter.

“Maik, was it? The name of your brother?” Keith tried his best to sound happy enough, or at least not too grim, to change the subject, silently praying Lance will take the opening.

He did. “Maikel,” Lance said, that same nostalgic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “he's the oldest of my siblings, so the yo-yo is kind of a family heirloom.”

“How many siblings do you have?” Keith asked.

“Fi –“ Lance's breath hitched all at once, like he was a child saying a curse word, like he stopped himself right on time before saying something wrong. “Four. We're four. Including me.”

Keith found that sad, for a reason he couldn't name. Or maybe he could – counting brothers wasn't something he had ever done. The only one he ever had, he couldn't count anymore. And that was pretty sad.

“Phew.” Lance sighed, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, dropping to the laundromat floor near the same washing machine he used the last time.

Keith fell on his knees as well, shoving his uniform into a machine. He was now wearing the only thing he had other than the Galaxy Garrison uniform, an outfit which consisted of a gray shirt and dark pants, which coincidentally also served him as his sleeping clothes. He was used to switching between just two outfits, he noticed. The realization felt clearer after Lance had him talking about Texas. He didn't mind it. Back then, he only had one.

After pouring spoonfuls of detergent and slipping in a few coins for the machine, it was all set. Lance was leaning against his machine, bouncing his yo-yo, then he smiled brightly when he saw Keith had finished with his clothes, too. As they left _Wash 'n Go_ , Keith wondered what forces Lance must have in order for him to switch so fast from speaking of his longing for his home, to a smile so bright, like a sunrise after a long night, or a daisy making its way through snow.

Keith didn't possess that kind of strength, and so he was envious of Lance. But most of all, he admired him. Keith thought about that when Lance caught the light of the midday sun, ever-so-symbolically.

 

October 12 th , 6:04 p.m.

It was a while before they came to a stop.

They were walking down that same highway, the only path that corner of the desert could offer, when Lance stopped before a road sign. No, not a road sign – a bus stop.

“Where... exactly are we going?” Keith asked hesitantly.

Lance leaned against the pole of the sign. He was smirking when he said, “We're going downtown.”

Keith didn't get any farther explanation, because then a bus came rolling down from ahead – actually rolling down, on _wheels_ – the first movement Keith had seen on that stretched out road. It stopped right beside them, large and bulky and so very old, its door swinging open with a hiss.

“After you.” Lance patted on Keith's shoulder, and Keith climbed up the wobbly stairs of the bus.

“Wait,” Keith said halfway into the bus, turning to Lance. “I didn't bring any –“

Lance swatted his hand in the air, like he had it all planned out already, whether Keith had cash or not.

Keith stepped into the bus, between two rows of seats, empty of people, picking a dusty one in the middle of the bus to sit on. His face felt hot. He didn't like having Lance pay his ticket. He didn't like having anyone pay anything for him.

He distinctly remembered he felt the same way that first time he came to the Galaxy Garrison, when Shiro refused to accept Keith's hard-earned money for the two cabs they had shared all the way from the Children's Home, the orphanage just outside San Marcos that Keith thought he'd be doomed to live in until age eighteen, to the Garrison, some months before Keith's freshman year.

“ _No more of that,_ ” Shiro had said in response to Keith's offer. “ _From now on, let me take care of the payment. You study flight. The caretakers tell me that you've been wanting to enroll in Galaxy Garrison for a while. I know that's what your father would've wanted._ ”

Keith wanted to protest, to say that he doubted his father wanted anything for him, but he didn't. Later that day, when the news came of Keith's scholarship for his freshman year, he wasn't surprised.

“Keith!” Lance's voice snapped him right back to reality. He was standing with his fists against his hips in impatience. “You're taking up the whole seat.”

“Oh.” Keith moved aside to sit against the wall of the bus, and Lance dropped down next to him – or fell, maybe, the wobble of the bulky vehicle drawing him to the seat.

The bus had spun around, and it was driving the same way it came. Keith watched through the dirty window next to him as the scenery changed in a blur. After a while, the highway split into several smaller roads, like a body of water spilling into whispy rivers, and the bus turned to one of them.

“Will you tell me now where we're going?” Keith asked Lance after they made the turn, sliding onto yet another empty road. It looked like the one beside the laundromat – lonely, stranded. It was strange, to see that two different roads were so alike beneath the Nevada sun.

“Where's the fun in that?” Lance asked, then when he saw Keith's unamused frown, he added, “Come on, Keith. Live a little.”

Keith didn't give up quite so easily, turning away from the window to face Lance with an unyielding stare. “At least tell me how much time it'll take,” he kept prodding. “We still have the clothes to pick up, and I don't want to come back after curfew.”

“That's rich coming from the guy coming from a party to a laundromat at two in the morning,” Lance said, which got Keith's cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Lance chuckled, easing the dusty, hot air inside the bus. Then, he pinched Keith's right cheek between his finger and his thumb, squeezing fondly. “Live a little, flower boy!”

 

October 12 th , 6:57 p.m.

By the time Lance nudged Keith, who was resting his head against the window throughout the whole ride, the sun was already drifting towards the horizon in the first stages of a sunset, starting to streak the desert view with pink and orange hues.

“We're here,” he said, coming to his feet and stretching his arms above his head.

Keith rolled his shoulders back, his body stiff from sitting for so long, then got up after Lance. The bus opened its doors just in time for them to leap out of it, before rolling away again, leaving them behind.

The first thing Keith noticed was lights. Not city lights – what he was seeing definitely did not count for a city, being a small town at best – but lively lights, street lamps, lamps lighting the inside of humble restaurants – signs of life, something he'd missed seeing in the empty spot of the desert the Garrison was located in.

“Where did you bring me?” Keith asked, examining the town under a cocked brow.

“This, my friend,” Lance said coming to stand next to a big, washed-out sign planted firmly into the ground, gesturing to it, and the town lying behind it with his whole arm, like a tour guide. “Is Quinn, Nevada. Population –“ he squinted at the sign, trying to read some small letters that were long gone. “– probably about a thousand, maybe less. Doesn't matter.”

Keith's brow remained raised, unimpressed. Lance made a face, his whole body plopping at Keith's lack of enthusiasm, like a balloon running out of air.

“C'mon, it's neat,” he said, pouty. “Here, let me show you around.”

And so he did – he did for a while, and the town didn't seem all that bad after that. Not likable, but not so bad. It had a small gas station and a relatively-big Walmart, which both seemed too big for the town's small dimensions, especially when it took no more than a few minutes to get from the one location to the other.

It also had a shopping center, right at the front of the town – the few people that lived in the town all seemed to spend their time there, as it was pretty much the only place buzzing with life. The center was comprised of little shops and restaurants surrounding a space full of round metal tables, where everybody sat to eat under overhanging strings of warm fairy lights.

“This place looks extra pretty when it snows,” Lance said, admiring the draped lights. “Oh, yeah, it snows here. The fairy lights melt the snow and it ends up dripping into your food.”

“Doesn't sound that pretty.” Keith scoffed.

“It is, though!” Lance smiled proudly, as if he was the very one dropping the snow onto the strings of light in winter.

Then, Lance stopped walking. Instead, he opted for running. He grabbed Keith's wrist, then burst into a sudden flight.

“Lance, what –“

Keith didn't get to complete that sentence. Lance dragged him through the shopping center, dodging people and tables, running past a line of stands and stores, making their neon signs blur into luminescent smudges across Keith's vision. Then, he halted all at once, just as fast as he had begun his sprint.

“What the hell, Lance,” Keith managed through heavy breaths, clutching onto his knees.

“This is what we came here for,” Lance ignored, unfazed by both the sudden run and Keith's surprise of it, looking ahead with a big, childish smile plastered on his face.

Keith turned to look at what caught Lance's gaze, what they ran across town for, then straightened up. “Is that – ?”

“Yup,” Lance said, every bit of him sounding satisfied. “Quinn's very own arcade.”

It was everything you'd expect an arcade in a small town like Quinn to be – tiny and colorful and everything a child who has seen no other arcade would want, and probably everything Lance wanted, too.

Keith wasn't a fan of arcades – as a kid, whenever he visited downtown of whichever corner of Texas his father moved them to, he would beg him to let him go to one, and always got the same response, “ _Other kids shoot their stupid laser guns. You get to use a real one_ ”.

After that, at the orphanage, he didn't feel so bad about missing out on arcades, or on theme parks, or whatever other childhood experiences were deemed normal. The other kids at the place were just as poor as him, and anyway, he was too grown up to enjoy those things unironically.

Now, Keith doubted he could enjoy anything unironically. Nevertheless, he let Lance drag him by his wrist again into the oversaturated arcade.

 

October 12 th , 7:19 p.m.

They didn't stay for long, but it felt like an eternity and a half under the arcade's blazing neon lights, in a good way – to Keith's surprise.

Lance introduced him to every single game the place had to offer after trading some coins for tokens the arcade's machines accepted with a bored cashier sitting behind a counter at the front the place – he began with his childhood favorite, a pink-yellow machine that must've been more than a century old holding the original _Pacman_ game. Keith was surprised to see it work at all, but Lance told him the thing wasn't in good shape, erasing all the high scores as soon as it got them.

The next game Lance had shown him was _Space Invaders_ , a weird game about aliens – or so Keith understood, as he never managed to get the hang of it before they moved on to the next one, _Police 911_ , and then the next one, and the one after it, and the one after that, until they got to the last video game the place had to offer, which coincidentally was also Lance's current favorite, a game called _Killbot Phantasm I_. Lance told him it was first created as a consule game, and then adapted to game machine format by popular demand, something Keith failed to understand.

"Game machines are groovier," Lance explained with a shrug, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

That game seemed a little more up Keith's alley – it had a yoke for a controller, which instantly made Keith like it more than the other ones – until he learned that it was much harder to manage than the control wheel back at the Garrison's simulation room, and that the plot of the game was as complicated as his history classes of freshman year.

“You're at the haunted castle and have to fight its mighty monsters along with your two magical brothers-in-arms or else you'll become ghosts, too!” Lance said, gesturing at the screen, like that would do any help to Keith's bad virtual-fighting skills. “It's really not that complicated – shield! Use your shield!”

“I'm trying!” Keith groaned, pressing all of the buttons at once with one hand and maniacally yanking at the control yoke with the other, not really sure if he was actually trying to use the controls properly or just sliding into a fit of frustrated rage. “It's not working!”

“That's because you're doing it wrong! Here.” Lance came to stand behind Keith, slipping his arms over Keith's and taking over some of the controls for him.

Keith remained frozen in place. Lance instructed him – what to do, how to move, which buttons to press, but Keith couldn't bring himself to pay attention, not completely. A part of him was hyper-aware of Lance's chest heaving whenever he breathed in, or Lance's breath tickling the back of his neck, and he thought it was unfair how he could do these kinds of things with ease, standing so close to another person, hugging someone, grabbing them by the shoulders, doing everything else he did, without tearing away all at once as if scorched. It was a dimension apart from his own, with its own rules, with its own ways, nothing like what Keith had known all his life.

For some reason, that felt like the right time for his mind to play a hazy memory from the Children's Home orphanage, when he had turned thirteen. The staff sang happy birthday to him, like they did to any other child who got one year closer to getting nicely asked to leave when they made it to adulthood. He didn't remember how exactly, but one girl came up to him. She hugged him, but he didn't hug back. He didn't think much of it at the time – and if he was honest, he didn't think much of it now, either.

But that orphan girl took offense – she asked him what was wrong, or something along those lines – the memory was too foggy for Keith to remember correctly – and her friend came up and simply said, “ _That's Keith. He doesn't hug – his father didn't love him._ ”

Just like that she'd said it, like it was no big deal, and Keith supposed in a place like that orphanage in Texas it really was no big deal.

The girl who had hugged him asked, “ _Is that true?_ ”

“ _It's true,_ ” Keith answered with a shrug. No big deal at all.

Back at the arcade, Lance's hands were doing most of the work, poking buttons and pushing joysticks and pulling the control yoke.

“Come on, Keith, are you working with me or against me?” he said, frustrated at one of their game teammates dying, turning into a tombstone on the screen.

“I'd be working with you if this game wasn't impossibly hard!” Keith exclaimed in response.

Then, the monster in front of their game avatars swung a bat, and three headstones appeared in place of their characters.

Both Keith and Lance groaned at the same time. Lance stepped away from Keith, while Keith examined his aching knuckles to distract himself, as if the difference between contact and no contact, touch or no touch, wasn't a difference of heaven and earth for him.

The final game the Quinn arcade had in store was no video game at all – it was an air hockey table, and Lance slipped his last tokens into it, turning it on and placing the game disc firmly on its surface.

“If you tell me you've never played this one I will actually riot,” Lance said, pushing the puck over to Keith's side.

“Then you're in luck,” Keith said, sending the disc flying over through Lance's goal slot with a swift movement of his striker. “I'm a pro.”

Lance gaped Keith, which made both of their mouths curl into a sly smile. Keith's was smug, confident from across Lance's side the table.

“Oh, yeah?” Lance flopped the puck back on the table, kicking it over to Keith's left corner.

Keith hit it again, sending it over to the right edge of the table, from which it bounced right back into Lance's goal with a _clack_. “Yeah.”

Lance bit his lip, competitive fire in his eyes. “Oh, it's on.”

He placed the puck back, and the battle had begun. It went on for a while – Lance stood his ground, placing high-guarded defense on his goal slot and striking back no matter the angle Keith shot the disc in. He put up a fight, but it was ultimately useless against Keith's throws. He might have been bad at video games, but he was undefeatable in the real thing.

Keith struck hard and fast, focusing on offense rather than defense, which paid off when Lance started getting impatient with his constant losses, ditching his defense strategy, which provided a great opening for Keith to strike another three times and finish the game with a score of 12:0.

“How dare you beat me in my own arcade?” Lance huffed when they left the building, crossing his arms.

Outside, darkness was already beginning to fall, reigning over the town and the landscape of the Nevada desert with its outstretched fingers and cold palette. The fairy lights glowed bright over people's heads, though there were fewer people around the shopping center's round tables than at noon.

“It's the only game I knew how to play,” Keith said.

Lance un-wrapped his arms, waving them in protest. “That's not true! You got pretty good at Killbot Phantasm before, you know, we all died.”

Then, his brow furrowed and he looked around suspiciously. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell... what?” Keith asked.

“Only the best smell in the world!” Lance said, running off again.

This time he didn't pull Keith along with him, but Keith didn't want to lose him amongst the groups of locals walking around, so he ran after him to a small wooden stand with the title “ _Corn on the Cob_ ” written on it in a curly font. By the time Keith caught up with Lance, he was already paying for two ears of cooked corn, holding them by a wooden skewer driven through their cobs. Steam was still rising from them when Lance handed one to Keith.

“To eat on the way back,” Lance explained, already biting into his cob.

“Thank you,” Keith said, and he meant it, though the words in the context of the situation – being given food – feeling all too familiar. He didn't like the familiarity of it.

Lance didn't say "you're welcome". He didn't treat Keith like the hungry child he once was, didn't ask for his gratitude when he paid for his bus ticket back, or for the money he spent on him in the arcade.

It was a world's difference from what Keith had known, but in a good way. Keith was grateful for that, for Lance being different. For Lance being Lance, casual hugs and all.

They bit into their cobs of corn all the way back to the Garrison.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so some notes:  
> -as far as i can tell there's no actual place called Quinn in Nevada; even if there is, this Quinn is 100% fictional because i just kinda needed to invent my own town, ya feel???  
> -also, it's not a klance fic without lance saying "hey man" at least 500 times so don't hate the player c;  
> -lastly, i specifically wanted to spell it 'Maikel' because i've never seen any fics with practically-spelled names & being Latinx i could not abide this madness!! so Maikel it is *shrug*


	8. a Pilot in the Making

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is basically a contemporary story akdjgkadf i'm so sorry.... also, i know no one likes major original characters... but bear with me here it's good i promise

a Pilot in the Making

 

October 13 th , 10:10 a.m.

It was a sunday – which meant Keith had the Galaxy Garrison all to himself.

The students were all allowed to leave to visit their homes on the weekends, which meant those who stayed were allowed to show up for meals whichever time they wanted, run in the halls, and do everything you weren't allowed to do on a normal day.

The cafeteria was a ghosttown, sad and empty, only few tables being filled. Breakfast was quiet at their table, too – Pidge was gone, which meant no constant background music of her gushing about Mrs. Flores, her instructor, and it was only slightly missed.

Hunk cared too much about Lance to talk about his instructor, so they were left with talking about nothing but casual news about the Garrison's latest projects and NASA's newest astrocrafts. Then, Lance left for some more sleep hours with a pat on Keith's shoulder, and Hunk disappeared shortly after to do his engineering homework, and Keith was left alone by the table.

Eventually, he was left alone in the cafeteria, the groups of cadets migrating away – or so he thought, until a thin figure fell into the seat in front of him with grace.

“Kogane,” she said.

“Andrea,” he said.

She had a half-finished sandwich in her hands, but she wasn't eating from it, too occupied staring at Keith.

“You wanna know how I do it?” she asked, straight to the point, and her voice was a poisonous core coated with politeness. “How I make my planes? So Iverson would stop crumpling yours up along with the rest?”

The way she had said it made it seem like the rest was some _other_ , some species inferior to them. Keith didn't like that. He didn't like Sheinfield talking to him at all, let alone offering him a solution to the problem. Nothing ever came free, he knew that since childhood, and he didn't think for a moment Andrea didn't want a price in return for the knowledge.

“Why would you tell me?” he asked, his voice flat.

She remained quiet for a moment, biting into her sandwich like a bird pecking, chewing silently. Then, she looked back at Keith with that same appearance of a scarecrow she had when he first ran into her, brown eyes shining dangerously.

“I think we can help each other, you and I,” she said, voice nothing louder than a whisper. “I think we can both learn from one another.”

Keith kept staring at her. When he didn't say anything, she took it as a silent agreement from his part.

“I build them,” she said simply. “I build them as if they were the real thing, as if they were meant to hold people, to fly – as if I were to fly them. I build them with that in mind, and the rest is done by the grace of the wind.”

Keith looked at her for a moment, until he felt like he understood. That was what those tasks were all about. If they were to fly an astrocraft, they first had to learn how to make one from intuition. They had to make their own jets before they could fly any. Before becoming pilots, they had to become builders, creators, makers.

Keith nodded, and left Andrea Sheinfield alone in the cafeteria. He went to his dorm, got a notebook, and went outside to the tarmac.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long chapters??? idk her  
> thanks to me saying it was a sunday i had to keep track of the days and the dates for the rest of the story because i'm dumb like that.  
> anyway leave some kudos if ya like!!!!


	9. Shells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boom double chapter because the last one was short!!  
> [TW for alcoholism mention]

Shells

 

October 13 th , 7:38 p.m.

All day Keith spent outside, ripping pages from his notebook and folding them meticulously. At first it didn't work all that well, but Keith kept going, kept picturing himself as the pilot of the jets he used as reference, until the paper sheets in his hands turned out more and more like them, flying more and more smoothly, until each and every astrocraft he mimicked came out as an exact replica, minus the size and the fact it was made out of paper.

When that happened, the first thing he did was to run back to the barracks, crazed with joy and self-satisfaction, two feats on their own for Keith. He knocked impatiently, bouncing up and down on his legs. The door remained closed for so long, Keith thought there was no one behind it, but he was proven wrong when it slid open with a _whoosh_ to reveal a groggy Lance, eyelids heavy and wearing a blue robe.

“Keith?” he asked, rubbing his eyes with the knuckles of his fingers, as if he wasn't quite awake enough to decide if it was really Keith or not.

“You have to come see this,” Keith said, gesturing at the same way he came from.

“What's going on?” now Lance's voice was suspicious, as was his expression, a sharp eyebrow raised in question.

Keith lifted his right hand, which held a neat paper plane between his pointer and middle finger. He launched it, the motion made fluid with all his practice from the day, and it flew ever-so-gracefully. Lance was gaping. Keith was smiling, victorious at last.

“How?” was all Lance had to say.

“Come outside,” Keith said. “I'll show you.”

He didn't even have to try to convince Lance – _he_ was the one leading the way to the tarmac in a run, stopping only down the hall to pick up and admire Keith's creation.

Outside, Lance immediately sat cross-legged, his intertwined fingers to match under his chin in a child-like excitement.

“Tell me everything,” Lance said, and he was looking more attentive than ever, in a sharp contrast to his long-gone tiredness.

“Alright.” Keith ripped another page from his notebook, then held it up, like a magician before the magic trick. “You have to stop thinking about it like you're folding paper, and think about it like you're actually making a jet – a real astrocraft. Once you let go of the ridiculousness of feeling like a kindergarten kid, and start thinking like a builder, like it's an actual jet you're going to fly – then it just happens, like magic.”

Keith demonstrated. He folded the paper he held up, first twisting the skeleton into place, then curving the body, sharpening up the edges – one fold, two folds, three folds – not giving a single glance to any of the jets around him. He knew them by heart by then, understood their workings and translated them seamlessly into paper format. He carved the wings into place, then made a few last touches, and in his hands rested a beautiful astocraft, a mix of the ones lying in the tarmac and yet something else entirely – new and elegant, something he would be proud to fly.

He turned around to face the asphalt platform, and threw his plane. It looked even more beautiful flying than still, soaring so well it looked like a small bird from far away. And it went far enough to look like that – in fact, it went so far it never landed on their level, dropping farther down, and probably landing someplace random in the stretched out desert below.

When Keith turned back around, Lance was smiling like Keith had just flown a real jet instead of a paper one.

“That's... actually insane,” Lance said. He was still gaping, and it looked funny in combination with his smile. “how did you figure this out? How did you manage to... conjure up this sorcery?”

“Sheinfield,” Keith said, shrugging. “She told me how she did it, so I tried for myself.”

“Sheinfield,” Lance repeated, tapping his chin – Keith thought he might have been trying to recall of whom he was speaking. “She told you, and you just... did it? Just like that?”

“Well, it did take all day for me to get the hang of it,” Keith admitted. “But yeah, I guess that was the trick.”

“Huh.” Lance looked pensive for a moment, then he ripped out a page from Keith's notebook. “Let's see.”

Lance folded and folded for hours, reading the jets parked in the tarmac from every direction and every angle, studying the shape of their shell and mimicking it with the paper in his hands. At first it was all very technical, his results coming out floppy, awkward; but gradually, over the course of time and a lot of used paper, he began making his planes like he meant it, began believing his own making, until he was just as good as Keith, if not better.

At last, when they both had the skill of crafting paper planes in the muscle memory of their hands, they silently declared a game – they stood apart from one another and threw their planes, two at a time, which meant no one managed to catch anything.

“How come your shots are both so accurate?” Lance asked with a frown as Keith's planes descended into his hands in unison.

“I'm ambidextrous,” Keith answered simply, collecting Lance's planes from the ground. Then, when he stood back up and saw Lance was open-mouthed again, he added a confused, “What?”

“You're ambidextrous,” Lance said, blinking.

“Yeah.” Keith shrugged.

They threw another round of planes.

“I thought that was, like, a myth!” Lance said, managing to catch the two airplanes in both of his hands with a jump. “You're ambidextrous. Of _course_ you are.”

Keith's brow shot up. “What's that supposed to mean?”

It was Lance's turn to shrug now. “I don't know, it just seems really you to be ambidextrous. To like the color red. To show up wearing flowers in your hair to a random laundromat in the middle of the night. It's just, very Keith-like of you.”

Keith huffed a laugh, launching yet another set of planes at Lance. “How do you know that it's very Keith-like of me? It could be very not-Keith-like of me as well. I could be just some boring weirdo who likes the color red.”

Keith meant for it to sound as casual as possible, but it was hard when that same melody played in his head unironically every day. In truth, he saw himself as both boring and weird, and Lance was treading dangerous grounds, walking the line before Keith's inner conflicts, before Keith's pent-up emotions.

Keith had told Lance, he noticed just now, more than he'd told anyone else, maybe aside from Shiro, and even _he_ got the information gradually, over the course of a few years. He didn't know how to feel about that, but it was far away from everything he knew. In ways, he was treading dangerous grounds, too, and that was even scarier.

He was afraid, Keith realized, that Lance would get what kind of person Keith really was, dull and sad, oftentimes hollow, a skeleton both in body and in mind. The Fraud Complex, it was called. The fear that Lance will see through whatever he thought of Keith at the moment, to reveal nothing but the core of what Keith really was, just a hollow boy with a dream. A fraud.

He didn't want to lose Lance to that, to his real self. Something about the way Lance talked with him made Keith feel a comfort he couldn't feel with any other person he spoke to, and Keith selfishly didn't want that to disappear.

It was a peculiar feeling, having a friend.

“No, that's not it,” Lance replied seriously after a beat of thought.

They'd both ditched the paper planes without Keith noticing, and were now sitting on the dry asphalt where they were standing previously.

“How do you know that?” Keith kept prodding, even though every bone in his body told him to quit while he was ahead.

"I'm an excellent judge of character," Lance said simply.

“Well, then, that's very Lance-like of you,” Keith copied Lance's tone. “And so is your favorite color being the sky, and your Matrix life allegory, and loving Quinn despite it being the smallest town known to man, and the whole hugging thing.”

The moment those words left Keith's lips, he instantly felt the sour punch of regret, but all Lance had to say in comment was, “I don't like Quinn. Quite frankly – I hate it.”

“What?” Keith was blown away. “No you don't. You love it!”

“No way, dude.” Lance stretched out his legs. He was wearing the same cargo pants he wore that night at the laundromat. “Okay, maybe a little. But not because of Quinn – there really is little to love there. I love Quinn because I love this godforsaken desert.

I have fallen in love, Keith. Fallen in love with Nevada. As much as she torments me with longing for my home, as much as she tortures me with the awful heat, I am head over heels for this desert, with its tiny towns and red soil and the empty roads. With the landscape. The negative space around the Garrison, just look around! It's all so breathtaking, it's no wonder this place has me so enchanted."

There was a small period of silence.

“That's very Lance-like of you, too,” Keith said eventually, voice quiet. “To fall in love with a desert.”

“Not _a desert_ ,” Lance corrected. “ _The_ desert. Next time, I'll take you crusading somewhere else in Nevada. You'll fall in love, too, Keith, you really will.”

Keith couldn't help but scoff at that, but Lance kept his small smile in place, sure of himself.

“You'll see,” he promised.

Another beat of silence, then, “Wait, what _hugging thing?_ ”

A laugh escaped from Keith's stomach, a real laugh, a rare laugh. It was so sudden it almost scared him, which is why it was short-lived.

“I'm serious,” Lance said.

“Well, I wasn't, so don't take it too literally.”

“Keith.”

“What?”

“The hugging thing,” Lance repeated. “The one you said was very me-like.”

Keith sighed. "Maybe it's less of a Lance thing, and more of an everybody-besides-Keith thing," he said quietly.

Lance crawled in a scrape against the cracked asphalt's will to sit closer beside Keith.

“I'm listening,” he said, voice not louder than a whisper.

“There's nothing to listen to.” Keith frowned at his knees, collecting them against his chest. “There's no real... sob story. I'm just messed up, that's it.”

Lance kept quiet, and Keith groaned.

“Nothing about my life is interesting. You're better off asking someone else for an autobiography,” Keith said.

Still no answer from Lance – just a consistent studying stare.

"What is it that you want?" Keith snapped at last, voice like a blazing machine gun, shooting and shooting and shooting. "You want to hear what poor life orphan Kogane had? You want to hear how he's in the most prestigious astro-explorer school by the mercy of his patron-brother and not by the merit of his skills? Because I'm sure you've heard all of those in the hallways already."

Lance was trying to read Keith, and Keith hated that. He hated that he even existed as a concept in Lance's mind, in anyone's mind. He hated and he hated and he hated – it was both an addiction and a burden, a twisted talent, to be able to hate so much without Keith's soul being consumed and melted into ashes yet.

Back on the tarmac, it began to rain – not light enough for Keith to ignore, not hard enough to force him back into the barracks. Actually, he wasn't sure there was a hard enough at all. Every shower the skies would fire at him, he knew he'd be able to take. It was stupid and self-indulgent, but he knew he'd never back away, even if the rival was the sky and the challenge was pouring fucking rain.

“I don't wanna hear _orphan Kogane_ 's life,” Lance muttered quietly at last, not tearing his eyes away from Keith.

Keith released a breath he was holding in his throat for far too long. It came out shaky, like a half-cry Keith couldn't keep inside of him anymore. Even a machine gun shooting its shells away needed to be charged again at some point. The thought tasted bitter in his mouth, bitter like defeat.

“I wanna hear your life,” Lance added after a little moment of the silent, steady tap of the rain. “ _Your_ life. Keith's life, in Keith's words.”

Keith studied him for a moment – he didn't know how he summoned the courage to look up without bursting into tears. “Why?” was all he asked Lance. “Why would you want that?”

Lance, being Lance-like, shrugged. So very Lance. “Because you're my friend.”

“Don't say that,” Keith shot, all too fast. “Not like that, not like an excuse.”

A crooked smile pulled on the right corner of Lance's mouth. It was a small smile, and though it had a tint of sadness, it was also very hopeful.

“You're my friend, Keith. You are,” he repeated.

Keith didn't object this time. He clawed at his knees, digging into his rain-dotted pants, but he didn't object. And then he spoke.

"I don't hug. Ever. Psycho-analyze me all you want – I might as well be a sociopath, or psychopath, or some other deviant thing.

Why? Let's check the leading fucking theories out, shall we? It could be my mom leaving. She left when I was a child. She left, and I don't even remember her, but god knows I remember how that tore my family to pieces,” Keith said flatly. “Or, maybe I'm actually messed up because of my dad being the only role model I had. My mom left me with him, alone. He raised me for a while, alone. Back then, he told me he worked in providing security. _keeping people safe_ , he said. After some time I understood which people he was protecting. The types he was hanging around... they got him into all sorts of trouble. We moved eight times – nine different towns in Texas – and every time his shaky connections would be sniffing around whatever shithole we were living in, and every time we had to leave.

Maybe I'm fucked up because of his drinking – because, oh, he drank. He got into alcohol the third time we had to move. By the eighth, he died of alcohol poisoning.”

Lance made a tiny sound, and Keith didn't dare to look at his face.

“And another possible theory for it is the orphanage. Orphan Kogane, the mighty story living in the halls of Galaxy Garrison – that was his first appearance. Children's Home, the orphanage was called, but no one there was really a child, not really. They've all seen too much – of the streets, of the real world – to ever be children. I was there for a while, and they almost put me in a foster care program – but then Shiro came.

Maybe it was him who contributed to me ending up this twisted. He knew my father, before he became the unrecognizable person with a fucked-up liver. Before my mother's departure made him hardened. He knew my father as the honorable fighter pilot he once was, and for that man only he took me under his wing. It was a Christmas Eve when he came to the orphanage, and I hated Christmas because I hated seeing the other kids getting crappy pity gifts of broken toys from a church in San Marcos, maybe because I didn't get any at fourteen, but that Christmas, I got two long cab rides for a present, and Shiro taking me to the Galaxy Garrison in the Nevada fucking desert. What good did that do me? Nothing, because everyone thinks I'm here because of Shiro cheating my way in – and he's gone now, too!

So there it is. My entire psychology thesis, _Why Keith Kogane is so Fucked Up_. Maybe that can be the title of my stupid biography – maybe I can release it along with your philosophy book." Keith drew a sharp breath. "And I swear to god, Lance, if you're looking at me with those pitiful eyes, I will punch them purple."

And now it was out, the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Keith clenched his fists in preparation for seeing Lance's face, but when he did, his arms fell limp against his sides.

“You're not fucked up,” Lance said, softly. “And I'm glad you told me.”

He didn't look glad. He didn't look pitiful, either. He looked grateful. The rain had traced his face generously with thin paths of water droplets. Some dots of rainwater remained still, on the tips of his lashes, on his lips.

And then Lance did the logical Lance-like thing to do. He hugged Keith, and Keith should have expected it, but it still took him by surprise, like an unexpected wave swallowing him whole, or the way his guts screamed whenever he took off in a simulation flight, or like rainfall in Nevada. Sudden, but welcome.

Keith didn't hug back. Lance knew that now, and he hugged him anyway, not expecting any kind of embrace in return. But Keith wanted to return it – and he vowed, silently, to himself, that he would. One day, when the lines between Lance things, and Keith things, and the-rest-of-the-world things are blurred enough, he would.

Lance tore away, giggling at the rain and cupping his palms to catch it. That on its own was nice to watch.

“Woohoo!” he cheered, as if the rain could hear him. He got up and began circling Keith, half-running-half-leaping, and completely, utterly ridiculous – completely, entirely Lance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the what?? gay???


	10. a Rare October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so this one is very much a "setting" chapter, mostly for the next one (i recommend reading them together!) but also for, like, everything else, you know? anywhomst i'll shut up now!

a Rare October

 

October 14 th , 10:22 a.m.

That day, everyone managed to make paper planes that were accurate enough to not end up in a crumpled-up ball on the ground, but Andrea's, Lance's, and Keith's were exceptional. Iverson didn't have anything good to say about them, though – the only comment he made in regards to any of the paper crafts being that it was the last time the class would make them. Keith dreaded to know what he had in store next.

After class, when everyone was leaving the tarmac, stepping over yesterday's puddles, Andrea Sheinfield approached Keith, hands held behind her back, firm, insidious.

“I didn't think you were the type to kiss-and-tell.” she was smiling, a cold smile, an eerie smile, like one that would be carved into a pumpkin for the month.

“What?”

“I tell you how I make my planes and suddenly your sidekick McClain knows, too?” she raised a brow under the curtain of her bangs.

"Lance isn't my _sidekick,_ " Keith shot, his jaw clenching. He tried to keep his voice calm, but it was like trying to stifle thunder.

Andrea shrugged. “but you did tell him.”

“Was I not supposed to?” Keith's brows were now raised as well, a stare-off with the scarecrow girl.

Andrea shrugged again, her brown eyes jumping between Keith to something in the background, and Keith knew, he _knew_ it was Lance she was looking at, staring like a barn owl.

“I don't mind,” she said. “You've certainly told me a lot, though.”

And just like that, she turned around and left, no explanations given, walking away like a ghost between the mass of students.

“Ready to go?” Lance came up from behind him, placing a warm hand on Keith's cold shoulder.

“Yeah,” Keith mumbled, still dazed, Andrea Sheinfield's words ringing ominously in his ears.

He watched her disappear into the building, disappear into the crowds. Something about the way she kept low amongst them felt like a scheme to Keith, like she kept secrets to use as blackmail. He wondered what she thought she knew about him.

“Yeah, let's go,” he said, hazily walking by Lance's side through the students and into the building, tracing the steps of the scarecrow girl.

 

October 15 th , 9:36 a.m.

The replacement for the paper planes were plastic bags that Iverson handed to each one of the cadets, holding nothing but dark pieces of a cardboard-like material in them.

“Now that you've made your paper planes, it's time to move to a more sturdy build, and to a more fitting shape,” Iverson said. “You have in each bag the skeleton of an astrocraft. This time, your results should be exact in shape, or else they wouldn't hold up when tested, which they will be, every class until the final test of the semester. If it doesn't look like a spacecraft, it won't launch like a spacecraft, and you will never understand the spacecrafts you wish to fly. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” the chant had already gained a familiar taste in the collective mouth of the students, a response said on autopilot.

“Get to work, then.” Iverson gestured with his hand, and left them, as he always did.

Keith found a quiet spot behind one of the ever-still jets and emptied his bag on the gray concrete, scavenging for parts that looked like they could fit together. Lance came to sit next to him, but while Keith's approach was hasty and intuitive, his strategy was much more calculated and cautious than that, long fingers fidgeting and examining the bag's contents piece by piece, a raven building its nest.

Lance already had a wing and half the body connected when Keith threw two ill-fitting pieces of cardboard onto the rest of the pile, groaning in frustration.

“This is impossible!” he said. “With the paper airplanes you got to shape it the way you wanted, but this is some kind of... insane puzzle!Where am I even supposed to start?”

Lance sighed, placing his unfinished project by his side carefully. “Keith, Keith, Keith.” he shook his head. “Always going about it the wrong way.”

"Is there even a right way?" Keith asked, frowning, pushing around miscellaneous pieces of cardboard with the tip of his boot.

“Sure there is!” Lance answered, smiling. “You just start from wherever and build your way from there. It's a game of connecting the dots. Here, let me show you.”

He grabbed some of Keith's pieces from the ground and put them on his lap. He searched around the bunch, then found two matching pieces and put them together. It looked vaguely like half a wing of a jet, though it could've been any other part of it, too. He handed the two pieces to Keith and placed all of the stray pieces back on the ground, before grabbing another random group of jet pieces, and picking from them again. After that, he let Keith take over, focusing on his own cardboard spaceship instead.

It was both impressive and annoying to Keith how good Lance was at that stuff. After a while of uniting pieces of cardboard into coherent shapes, he took a break, and opted for watching Lance's progress instead. He looked concentrated as he was figuring out the placement of his very last pieces, like he was performing heart surgery and not forging a cardboard sculpture, and Keith realized on the spur of the moment how crazy smart he was, feeling blind for not having seen it before. Lance was made of clouds of thought, and Keith couldn't decide whether he was appreciative or envious.

At last, when Keith formed his cardboard spacecraft long after everyone else had already finished, he realized that he was both of those – not that it mattered.

Lance made dumb explosions sound effects as he flew his astrocraft past Keith, and Keith couldn't keep his smile away.

 

October 15 th , 10:05 a.m.

Iverson's class was cut short that day, in favor of a course new to the Garrison's juniors, Flight Theory, which Keith firmly believed to be the most boring class they had all faced to date, which said a lot, specifically about Chemistry class hosted by Professor Montgomery.

Not only was the class itself boring, Mr. Harris, the instructor, was an absolute nightmare of a teacher, mumbling incoherently and leaving the students more confused when they left than they were when they walked in, comparing each other's notes and consulting about the things they didn't manage to translate to their notebooks from the unintelligible babble of their instructor, which proved to be useless, since everyone wrote down a different version, and the message was left undeciphered.

Keith had to admit it was a highlight, though – previously, Iverson had taken them all into his office, a dreadful gray place Keith firmly believed someone could go insane in should they stay enough time, and brought them over to stand around a low-friction table, similar to the air hockey table Keith and Lance competed on only a few days before. Then, he put all of the fighter class' cardboard spacecrafts to the test, allowing them to hover over the table. Except, none of them did – no spacecraft managed to stay floating, all of them flopping miserably to the ground.

Some were better than the others, though – Andrea Sheinfield's, of course, was the one that managed to stay airborne for the longest time – but even that was mere seconds before her astrocraft fell to the floor just like everyone else's. Yulia Polak, a foreign, tall, blonde girl who did fairly well on all of her scores and all of Iverson's mission so far, came a second short after her. And after her, to everyone's surprise but Keith's, was Lance's spacecraft, holding up pretty well until, well, it didn't. Keith's jet, on the other hand, was one of the unfortunate ones, embarrassingly falling apart midair. He only took comfort in the fact that there was a significant chunk of other cadets whose creations never even made it whole to the low-friction table to begin with.

Iverson looked like he was about to burst from how pissed he was, his face practically glowing red. Even that had seemed, in some way, better than the not-understandable teacher Mr. Harris, or whatever his thick textbook had to say, by the time that his class was over.

Complaints from the fighter class began raining the moment they walked out of the classroom door, pouring all the way into the cafeteria. Keith had a hard time keeping his own quiet. Luckily – or maybe not – Pidge had something more interesting to talk about when they dropped next to their usual table.

“So,” Pidge said, that bad, _bad_ smug look on her face, when he, along with Lance, dropped onto the table. “Guess where I've just been.”

“Studying with your perfect instructor? Please, spare me.” Lance sighed, mouth pouty.

"Nope." Pidge's satisfied smile stretched even larger. "I went to office to get a print of the trimester's schedule, when I was met with the students' charts. The birthday charts, specifically."

Lance lifted a single eyebrow. “I don't understand where this is going.”

“Amongst the papers,” Pidge said officially, “October.”

Keith lifted his gaze cautiously. There was no way she would follow that with anything good.

“Amongst the jolly good fellows,” she continued, “Keith Kogane.”

Keith cursed under his breath, burying his face in his hands. He had hoped to hide his birthdate from whoever he could hide it from, to keep low until after the storm had passed. The only person who knew when was his birthday was Shiro, and he wanted to keep it that way, considering even _he_ wasn't in Keith's life any longer.

“Really?” now Lance's voice was as playful as Pidge's. “How _very_ curious.”

“Alright, you can stop that now,” Keith said blandly.

“Who knew our very own Keith is a little – which sign is it? – Libra,” Lance kept it up, sounding sing-songy.

“Scorpio,” Keith corrected, removing his palms from his face, and realizing he fell into the trap a second too late.

“Aha!” Lance said, pointing a finger straight at Keith's nose. “So it's yet to come!”

“You could have gotten that by statistics –“

Lance canceled Pidge's words with a swat of his hand, proud smile on his face. She frowned. "Whatever, Sherlock," she said, "I was the one who found the papers."

“Guys, I'm happy we know we didn't miss Keith's birthday,” Hunk said, “but there's still a bunch of days before October ends.”

Keith groaned and rolled his eyes, which only seemed to fuel the conversation his cafeteria table was having against his will. Pidge was now calculating the chances for each remaining day of the month to be Keith's birthday, while Lance kept arguing for the Zodiac approach.

“Will you please move on?” Keith begged impatiently. “Please? I already hate my birthday.”

“No one hates their birthday,” Hunk said with a laugh.

“Come on,” Pidge pushed, “tell us when we should plan the surprise party for.”

“Now I'm definitely not telling you,” Keith said, which caused a chorus of pleads and begs.

He never succumbed. Pidge pledged to investigate further on Keith's exact birthdate, and Hunk said he'd be ready to organize a makeshift party with some of his special cake recipes and some balloons. Lance was the quietest of all, which was the most disturbing of all.

“If you ever try anything stupid –“ Keith began.

“Relax,” Lance said, the corners of his mouth only slightly curling up. “It'll be anything but.”

For some reason, that didn't make Keith feel any more at ease.

 


	11. Surprise!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anotha one!!!

Surprise!

 

October 16 th , 7:06 a.m.

Three knocks on Keith's barrack door forced him to dress up in twice the speed, to make his hair look human-like, and he still looked like a zombie opening it.

“Surprise!”

Lance was holding a cake – an actual frosted cake, that read _Happy Birthday Keith_ in a curly handwriting.

Hunk was holding four helium balloons right next to him, and Pidge was blowing a party horn on his other side.

Keith bit his lip in a poor attempt to hide a smile.

“Not today,” he said, and closed the door in their faces.

 

October 17 th , 7:09 a.m.

The next morning, three more knocks. Keith didn't push himself to dress up faster, and didn't bother to check if he looked alive at all this time.

“Surprise!”

The cake Lance was holding had been smudged where the frosting was, and he was glaring at Pidge from the corner of his eye, to which she only shrugged innocently, blowing her party horn.

The balloons Hunk was holding were halfway to the floor.

Keith inhaled sharply, and exhaled slowly. “Still not today.”

He closed the door.

 

October 17 th , 7:10 a.m.

Three knocks. Keith was wearing his sleeping attire when he opened the door, and he was pretty sure he had dry drool on his cheek.

“Surprise!”

The cake was missing a piece in Lance's hands, and Pidge was nowhere in sight.

“Uh, Pidge said she'd tell you happy birthday at breakfast,” Lance clarified. “Well, more like screamed that when we tried to wake her up. But happy birthday, buddy!”

Hunk took care of both the party horn and the now-earthbound balloons.

“Thanks,” Keith said.

“Really?” Lance asked.

“No,” Keith answered, and the door shut once again with a _click_.

 

October 18 th , 7:11 a.m.

Knocks. Keith got up.

“Surprise!”

Half the cake was gone. Hunk looked half-asleep, the party horn nearly falling from his mouth. Lance's smile looked like it physically hurt. The balloons were gone, and so was Pidge, yet again.

“Not today.”

_Click_.

 

October 19 th , 7:13 a.m.

Knocks.

“Surprise!”

Hunk was now gone as well. The cake looked old and messy. Lance was blowing the party horn now, and even he wasn't doing it enthusiastically.

“Please say yes?” Lance asked.

“No.”

_Click_.

 

October 21 st , 7:15 a.m.

Knocks.

“Surprise?”

“No.”

_Click_.

 

October 22 nd , 7:16 a.m.

Knocks.

“Surprise.”

“No.”

_Click_.

 

October 23 rd , 7:16 a.m.

Three knocks.

“Surprise!”

“No.”

_Click_.

Only this time, Keith opened the door again. He had prepared for this, getting up early enough just so he could be ready to see Lance's face when he appeared at his door.

“Hey, is there anything left of that cake by any chance?” he called after Lance, who was halfway down the hall. “I feel like I haven't eaten anything since I was sixteen.”

Lance turned around at the speed of sound. “Shut up.”

Keith shrugged. “Your torment is over.”

Lance ran straight into Keith, hugging him close while lifting the cake over their heads.

“Happy birthday, mullet,” he huffed into Keith's neck, and his words tickled his skin and trickled down into Keith's spine. “Happy happy birthday.”

 

October 23 rd , 7:27 a.m.

Instead of taking the cake to the cafeteria for breakfast, Lance had declared that he selfishly wanted to finish it between him and Keith since Pidge and Hunk had enough pieces of it already, but opening the white cardboard box containing the cake, Keith knew it was impossible anyway to share it between more than two people.

Keith had invited him into his room then, suddenly hyper-aware of all the mess he left in it, but Lance didn't seem to mind, sitting back on the edge of Keith's bed, while Keith took his office chair by his desk.

“You're the only person I have ever met that has his own dorm,” Lance said, his mouth full with somewhat-stale cake, a cloud of icing on his upper lip.

“This used to be a storage room,” Keith said after finishing his share. “Besides, it wasn't always... just mine.”

Lance had been scooping some frosting that was left in the box, but when Keith said that, he turned to him. He looked at Keith with that same look he had in his eyes at the tarmac, after Keith had told him every single reason for his damnation in life. Not pitying – caring, tender. It felt strange to see that in Keith's dorm, the place he spent all of his days in, like a clash of two worlds. And maybe that's what Lance and he were.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked, his mouth still ridiculously coated with that cream topping, like a thick white mustache.

“Not really,” Keith said flatly. “Besides, you probably heard it a hundred times already.”

Lance's eyes remained focused on Keith's, but he was frowning now, almost looking angry. "Why do you keep doing that?"

“Doing what?”

“You _know_ what,” Lance said, brow furrowed. “Saying that I _must_ know everything about you just because I walk in the Garrison's halls.”

“If you're trying to say you've never heard any talk about me, save it. I've heard it myself.” Keith's voice sounded offended, and he despised it. He swayed his chair so he was only halfway facing Lance.

“That's not what I'm trying to say,” Lance said seriously, quietly. “Yeah, I heard your name around, but I never even knew what you looked like until the beginning of this month! Besides, half the rumors in this place are BS, with a capital B... and an S. Whatever, you know what I mean. My point is – yes, I've heard rumors, but I don't care for rumors. I told you, Keith, I want to know you by _you_ , not by some whispering, gossiping freshmen.”

Keith felt bad because he didn't know how to answer that. He didn't want to talk about Shiro right now, maybe ever – but he also didn't want to shut the offer down, just in case, just for some small part of him that would maybe be ready to talk about it someday.

He remained quiet for a long time, swinging in his chair slightly, twirling the teaspoon on his empty, chocolate-stained napkin as a distraction. When he did speak, all he said was, “Pidge ate my whole cake.”

Lance played along with Keith's subject change, and sighed. “She did. But to be honest, the last few days _were_ trying times.”

After that, Lance got up, crumpling all of their dirty napkins and shoving them into the box the cake had once been in, and left Keith's dorm in search of a trashcan. Keith followed him out, walking alongside him, until they had reached the cafeteria for breakfast, a ridiculous proud smile on Lance's face. When Pidge and Hunk, already eating, saw the self-satisfied look on Lance's face, they immediately straightened up knowingly.

“Could it be?” Pidge asked. “Has the day finally arrived?”

“Yep.” Lance patted on Keith's shoulder. “Our beloved mullet has reached the ripe age of seventeen.”

“I don't believe you!” Hunk exclaimed, getting up to squeeze Keith into an even tighter hug than the one Lance gave him earlier. “Happy birthday, Keith!”

"Happy birthday, Keith," repeated Pidge. "I wish you a life free of Chemistry lessons. Also, your cake was pretty great."

“Thanks,” Keith said, and his small smile didn't do justice to the real gratitude he felt. “All of you, thank you.”

Keith felt welcome when he sat down to eat. In a rare moment of pointless birthday joy, he felt at home.

 

October 23 rd , 11:43 a.m.

Keith was leaving the cafeteria from lunchbreak when Shiro approached him.

“Keith,” he said, his whole face lit up, which was cruel to Keith.

He wasn't supposed to be happy for him, not when he wasn't there to feel anything else for him for months, birthday or no birthday. Keith had to hold his aching leg muscles from making a run for it again, remaining planted in spot despite every bit of him urging him not to.

“Happy birthday,” he said, placing a hand on his shoulder. A big hand, carrying big sentiments – a weight on Keith.

“Thanks.” Keith didn't move a muscle, his eyes unfocused.

“I got you something,” Shiro said, getting a small box from the pocket of his jacket and placing it in Keith's hands. “It's not much, but –“

“It's _too_ much,” Keith cut him off, holding his hand out with the box jabbing at Shiro's chest. “I can't – it's too much.”

It was too big of a sentiment, a pointless gift, like giving wings to a fish. He dropped the box back into Shiro's palm, and walked away.

 

October 23 rd , 5:02 p.m.

Keith had gotten so used to Lance's typical three knocks, that he knew it was him on the other side of the door even before it slid open.

“If you came for help with Mr. Harris' homework, I'm probably not the person to ask,” Keith said, sounding a little too exasperated.

“Oh, heck no – I gave up on the Flight Theory homework the moment Mr. Harris assigned it,” Lance said with a scoff, arms folded. Then he straightened up and cleaned his throat theatrically. “No, what I'm here for is to challenge you to come with me and give in to the winds of adventure in the great outdoors.”

“So Wash 'n Go and Quinn?” Keith asked, an eyebrow raised in question, but smiling.

"I will not treat you with the grace of a peasant on your birthday of all days!" Lance lifted his hand before him, as if reciting a play, then placed in on Keith's upper arm. "Today, we're going someplace awesome."

Lance dragged him by the arm all the way to the bus station, looking like he was about to burst from excitement. He bounced up and down with more momentum than all of the times he played with his yo-yo combined into one. His smile was so big it seemed like it could cause some permanent damage in the form of dents on his skin. Keith envisioned them looking less like dimples, and more like meteor crater on his golden-brown skin. It was a funny thought, albeit a nice one.

“You're scaring me,” Keith said as they got on the bus.

He was paying his bus ticket, and like Lance, hanging onto nearby seats and metal poles for dear life in order to stay on his feet, but he didn't mean his words. Lance's smile was charismatic, contagious, and that made every word in Keith's mouth taste like birthday cake, ridiculously happy, colorful, for no reason at all.

They found an empty seat and took it, though this time around Lance got to lean against the window through the whole ride, all while he talked about how amazing their destination is. That made it especially hard for Keith to not look forward to getting off the bus too much, to not expect more than Lance could deliver, though by Lance's contentment, it looked like he could tear the very moon and stars from the sky and hand them to Keith.

They passed by the Quinn station on the way, the welcome sign of the small town reflecting the sun's merciless noon beams, and as expected, they didn't leave their seats. The whole ride lasted maybe twice as long as the ride to Quinn, the bus swerving and turning onto smaller roads, but Lance kept promising Keith it was worth it.

“You'll love it,” he said, voice coated with happiness, like cake frosting. “I know you will.”

“Don't be so sure,” Keith warned. High expectations were a dangerous thing.

Lance swatted his hand in the air in a canceling motion. “I know you will,” he repeated.

 

October 23 rd , 7:46 p.m.

Keith had been to many towns – just as a child he had lived through nine different ones. He knew what small towns looked like, with their tiny homes and big routines, a civilization living in a bubble of car fume and gossip. Keith had also gotten a pretty good idea of what a small town in Nevada would look like, thanks to the previous field trip Lance took him to around Quinn. Keith had seen many towns, but none of them could ever prepare him for the quirky, bizarre town of Rachel, Nevada.

"Ta-da!" Lance gestured at the town's welcome sign.

It read, “ _Welcome to Rachel, Nevada_ ,” which seemed like nothing out of the ordinary, except right below that, it said, “ _Population – Human: YES. Alien: ?_ ", and right next to that, was the black silhouette of a sci-fi saucer.

“What – ?” Keith asked, as Lance clutched him by the shoulder and drove him away from the sign and into the town. “Where did you bring me, Lance?”

“Rachel,” Lance answered simply, as if that explained anything at all.

“I got that part,” Keith continued, “but what _is_ this place?”

All around him he could see alien-themed decorations, “ _Earthlings Welcome!_ ” signs, flying saucers painted on the town's few houses' walls. It was all so peculiar and unusual, that Keith had no idea what to make of it – a movie set? A life-sized prank?

“Where do I even begin?” Lance said, his voice rich with adoration, gesturing around the mostly-empty town. “Rachel has some history, but the best thing about it is how close it to connecting us with extraterrestrial life.”

Keith lifted a brow, and it only served as fuel for Lance's elation. He then looked both sides cautiously, held his palms up to his lips, and whispered so loud the whole town could hear, “ _Area 51!_ ”

“What?”

“This is the closest town to Area 51,” Lance explained. “Which is why it's all about aliens, and why it's practically run by tourism, and also why we're having your birthday dinner here.”

"No offense, but I don't think there are any places to eat in here," Keith said, looking around at the tiny buildings.

“There's one place only,” Lance said proudly, as if he'd built it himself. “Lucky for us, it's pretty neat.”

After a short while of walking in a tinfoil-hatter's dreamland, Lance stopped before a still tow truck grabbing onto a prop of a small saucer. Written on the sign next to it in big, hand-drawn letters, “ _Little A'le'Inn – restaurant, bar, motel – earthlings welcome!_ ” with the drawing of a typical big-eyed alien next to it.

“ _Little A'le'Inn?_ ” Keith read. “God, that's almost worse than your laundromat puns.”

“There is no way on earth that's true!” Lance said, gaining a frustrated groan from Keith. “Besides, this place is _out of this world!_ ”

“No, just... no.”

“The service is _extra-terrific?_ ”

“Please, not on my birthday.”

“Sorry,” Lance said, giving a slight push to Keith's upper back when they stepped into the restaurant. “I didn't mean to make you feel _alienated_ on this of all days.”

 

October 23 rd , 8:19 p.m.

Keith didn't feel alienated, as Lance put it.

In fact, it was probably one of the best birthdays he'd had, maybe one of his best days. Dinner at the Little A'le'inn had been exactly what you'd expect from it – all alien-themed, but somehow welcoming. When Keith had told that to Lance, he pointed at the “ _Earthlings Welcome_ ” sign in response, and they cracked up laughing all the way until their food arrived.

After finishing their food – burgers and fries served on a green plate in the shape of an alien's face – Lance had called the waitress over and whispered something only for her to hear. Keith suspected he might have been flirting with her by the look on Lance's face, but after a moment she was back, carrying a pile of waffles with three round balls of ice cream at its sides and whipped cream fluffed generously on the top, as well as a drizzle of chocolate syrup and colorful sprinkles. On top of it all, there was a single candle stuck on it, and the waitress placed the tower of sweetness and future-cavities on their table while singing happy birthday. Lance joined her, and soon enough, the whole staff of the restaurant had chimed into song, leaving Keith embarrassed and red-cheeked, but happy.

He was really happy.

“Make a wish,” Lance said softly, his face appearing warm by the light of the candle, its reflection glinting in his eyes.

Keith thought for a moment, then blew the candle. The whole restaurant clapped, and Keith and Lance devoured any trace of that desert within minutes. Then they had grappled about who should pay what, until they reached a compromise that Keith would tip the waitress while Lance would pay the rest, for the special occasion.

On the bus ride back, Lance kept glancing at Keith with a smile, as if expecting him to say something. Keith didn't – not because he didn't know what to say, but because he didn't know how to say it.

There were a hundred different ways to say thank you to Lance, but Keith didn't want his to be dull. He wanted his gratitude to be expressed as significantly as he felt it, and he kept thinking about that all the ride back to the familiar empty highway in their side of Nevada – how to say thank you to Lance McClain, properly.

“So what do you have against birthdays?” Lance asked when the bus dropped them off. “You said you hated yours.”

“I do,” Keith said, then quickly added, “or did. I'll have to see if this one is the single exception or if October 23rd is actually redeeming itself for me.”

“Why?” Lance asked, studying Keith. “Why do you hate your birthday, Keith?”

He wasn't smiling anymore, and he didn't have any craters from a vanished smile on his cheeks. Keith wished in that moment that he had.

Keith looked at the crumbling old asphalt at their feet, kicking it lightly with every step. “I don't know. I just do, or, I did. It's the anticipation, probably – how you're always made to feel excited for your birthday and then it never meets your expectations. I guess I just trained myself to not have expectations.”

Lance frowned. “That's terrible.”

Keith scoffed. “It's really not.”

But Lance continued. “You know what you are, Keith?” he said, serious, almost offended. “You're pessimistic. Your birthday is a good day – it's your day! Everyone likes it!”

Keith shrugged. “I don't.”

Lance stopped in the middle of a road and grabbed Keith by both of his shoulders. Then, he said, the most determined had Keith ever heard him, “Then we're changing that. _I'm_ changing that. Today is the beginning of a new, glorious age of birthday love.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but Lance only tightened his grip on him, looking at him straight in the eye.

“I'm serious!” he said. “I am taking it upon me as a mission to make October 23rd Keith Kogane's most favorite day of the year.”

“Good luck with that,” Keith muttered, tearing his gaze away.

“Hey, look at me,” Lance protested, shaking Keith's shoulders lightly. “I'm sorry your birthdays sucked so far, but it ends here. Everyone should like their birthday, and I vow to make all of your birthdays enjoyable from now on. I promise.”

He lifted his right hand from Keith's left shoulder and held his pinky finger up for Keith to see. He looked serious, eyebrows drawn together, urgent. When Keith understood that he wasn't planning on dropping his hand anytime soon, he shook Lance's pinky with his own, an unofficial handshake.

“I promise,” Lance repeated, solemn.

And right then, Keith knew exactly how to thank Lance. When their pinkies unclasped, and Lance moved his other hand from Keith's shoulder, Keith heaved himself up on his toes and embraced Lance before he could think it over under the light of sense and potential regret.

"Thank you," he muttered against Lance's shoulders, his hands curled into tight fists on his back.

Lance didn't waste a moment, hugging back with the same amount of care. Keith felt Lance's smile growing against his shoulder, where his jaw rested. As it turned out, even unseen, Lance's smile was just as contagious.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is like my 3rd favorite chapter from this whole fic yeehaw (also i highly relate to keith's birthday hate)


	12. Skeletons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is bombarded with meta and some angst because i'm dumb like that

Skeletons

 

October 31 st , 10:52 a.m.

The rest of the month flew by in a hurry – between constructing cardboard space shuttles for Iverson, memorizing their parts for Mr. Harris' Flight Theory, all while being tested on both whenever the miniature jets refused to remain airborne on the low-friction table – Keith didn't feel the days go by, until they did, and November was suddenly around the corner.

“So there's this thing,” Pidge said when Keith sat down at the cafeteria table, and he groaned in response.

“I don't wanna go to your stupid parties, Pidge,” Keith said, leaving just as quick as he had come to stand in line for the cafeteria's artificial-tasting food.

When he was back, Pidge, Hunk, and Lance, who had only just shown up, were all staring at him hopefully.

“No way,” he said, final. “Absolutely no way.”

“Come on,” Pidge said. “It's a Halloween party! You like Halloween!”

“No, I don't.”

“How come?” Hunk asked.

“Yeah, Keith, how?” Lance joined in.

“You won't even have to dress up,” Pidge bargained. “You can say you're either a hippie, or an emo. Or both!”

“Ouch,” Keith said. “Now I'm definitely not going.”

The whole table groaned in unison. Throughout the whole lunch break they tried to convince Keith to come, but he knew better by then. Junior year's Halloween was going to be nothing but nice and quiet for Keith.

 

October 31 st , 9:21 p.m.

Keith was doing his latest Flight Theory homework about the evolution of astrocraft wings, when the all-too-familiar three knocks summoned him to his door.

“You'll have to wait another 357 days for that,” Keith said flatly, the three faces looking up at him in expectation falling.

"We're here to pick you up for the Halloween party!" Lance said, already reaching out to pull Keith by his arm, and Keith swatted his hand away, frowning.

“I was serious,” Keith said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed decidedly. “No. I'm not going. You guys go, have fun. I've got a paper on the history of wings to finish.”

"You're choosing Harris over us?" Lance asked, voice half-awe half-offense.

Keith shrugged. "I'm choosing responsibility instead of a party – which I'm pretty sure isn't allowed on campus, anyway."

“Details, details,” Pidge said with an eye roll. “Are you coming or not?”

Her smirk was even larger now, like she was already sure Keith was coming, and that pissed him off. “For the last time, _no_.”

Lance put his hands up at Hunk and Pidge, peacemaking. “Let me talk to him.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but Lance was already in his dorm, leaning against his desk. Keith approached reluctantly, arms still firmly crossed over his chest.

“Nothing you'll say can convince me,” Keith made clear.

“I know,” Lance said, nodding and looking down at Keith's messy desk. “That's why I have to do _this_.”

He launched at Keith's desk, and before Keith knew it, he had his _History of Aeromechanics_ textbook in his hands, and was running with it out the door and into the hallway.

“Lance!” Keith called, his jaw clenched, closing the door with a kick of his leg and running after him. “Lance, give that back!”

Lance was way ahead, accompanied by Hunk and Pidge, who were glancing over their shoulder at a furious Keith coming for them. They all turned right, and Keith followed, then they hopped down the stairs, and Keith followed, and then they turned left and went downstairs again, and Keith followed, managing to – finally – catch up to them.

Keith felt victorious, until he saw the sly smile on Lance's face, the awkward one on Pidge's, and the frightened one on Hunk's. _Oh_. His book was bait, and he was just caught in the net. Above their heads hung a hand-drawn cutout of a pumpkin with the arrow at the Garrison's basement, and Keith knew he had lost.

He plucked his textbook from Lance's hands with an aggressive motion of his wrist. “Piece of –“

“A fun and good friend?” Lance suggested.

Keith thought he was exhaling steam. “I hate you all, I hope you know that.”

Pidge and Hunk cheered and high-fived one another, while Lance led Keith into the party at the basement with a hand on his back.

“Hey, you win some, you lose some,” he said, patting on his shoulder.

 

october 31 st , 10:14 p.m.

That time around, Keith wasn't alone at the party.

At first they had all been walking around as a group, but at some point Hunk needed to find a bathroom, and Pidge had located a group of sophomores dressed as witches to speak to, and Keith was left only with Lance by his side, holding a cup filled with every kind of Cheetos known to man and throwing them into his mouth – literally throwing them, after Keith didn't believe him that he could, flicking them right at his mouth in the trajectory of a perfect parabola that would make Keith's sophomore year calculus teacher proud.

It was then that he saw a familiar face approach him, the only person in the party who wasn't dressed up in some kind of makeshift disguise aside from their own split-up group, the only person fierce enough to frighten without a creepy costume.

“Didn't think I'd find _you_ here,” Andrea Sheinfield said, her face friendly, but voice vaguely condescending.

She then looked at Lance, who was still throwing Cheeto puffs into his mouth, and turned back to Keith without saying a word. She didn't have to – by her face alone, Keith could tell she disliked the very presence of Lance around her. His fists balled up against his sides, one gripping tightly onto the textbook Lance had stolen, the other clenched around a handful of the material of his pants.

“The surprise is mutual,” he gritted, trying to keep his voice clear, trying to keep his gaze straight.

“Oh, hey,” Lance said when he noticed Andrea, still chewing, wiggling his eyebrows in her general direction. “You're that girl who helped us with the paper planes, right? Thanks, by the way.”

Her nose was slightly scrunched in disgust when she looked at him, like it was a bothersome task just to hear Lance talking to her. Then, she walked away.

“Jeez, what's her deal?” Lance asked, watching her walk with her head high, landing another perfect throw of a Cheeto puff into his mouth.

“No idea,” Keith said, releasing the tension in his hands.

“The stress of being successful in everything must be getting to her,” Lance said, voice full with fake-sympathy. “So young, so athletic, so good at everything.”

"Tragic." Keith stifled a laugh with a bite of his inner lip. "How the education system messes you up."

They held each other's gaze for a moment, before bursting into laughter so hard, Keith thought Lance would end up choking on his Cheetos. Then a remixed song bass-boosted to hell about spooky skeletons came on, and Lance stopped laughing all at once.

“Oh! This song is the bomb!” Lance said in between crunching on his snack.

“Please, don't ever use that expression again,” Keith said, yelling behind cupped hands to overcome the loud noise.

“Sorry,” Lance muttered while chewing. “But it's so good! Let's go!”

Keith's brow furrowed in confusion. Lance was looking at him like he was expecting him to understand perfectly. “Go... where?”

Lance gaped at him, confused. He swallowed all of his Cheeto rockets at once. “Uh, where the music is? To dance?”

Keith felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment for not understanding sooner. Embarrassment, and something else, something he couldn't pinpoint right then and there, not when the loud, obnoxious music was drilling into his brain. “Oh – um, no. But I can wait here until you're done... raving.”

Lance chuckled with a shrug of his shoulders, then went over to where one of the speakers stood, playing loud music in the quietest volume a party could allow without getting found out, which was still fairly loud considering the walls of the Garrison were all soundproof to avoid the roaring of jets, resulting in the basement containing the sounds of bad hyper-bassed music to Keith's dismay. Lance seemed to be enjoying it, though, taking a spot next to one of the speakers and dancing to the rhythm of the song.

He wasn't the only one dancing, but out of all of those who were, he was the most ridiculous – popping the weirdest moves out of them all, leaping to the beat like a maniac, kicking his long legs like there was no tomorrow. It was funny, but Lance knew it, and embraced it. He kept coming to stand next to girls, smoothing his hair out at them or pointing finger-guns, not that any of his techniques actually worked, because they all kept dancing away from him, and he just kept dancing away.

Then the song switched to a remix of an old Halloween child song that Keith vaguely remembered hearing in its original version when he was younger, and Lance approached yet another girl.

She was wearing a full-body cat costume, one that was better made than most costumes in the party, and had black whiskers and a round nose drawn on her face. She, unlike the other girls, giggled at Lance's flirting, and even Keith could see from where he was standing that she was making his cheeks flush pink, which on his dark skin seemed like he had spent long under the sun. They stopped dancing then, the girl leading Lance by the hand to the snack table, only instead of filling his cup up with Cheetos, she poured two cups of some vibrant pink drink into them. _No_ , Keith thought.

“No,” he said, then began parting the dancing crowd, shoving himself in and pushing others out of his way across the basement, eyes focused on the sight ahead like tunnel vision. “No, stop!”

He got to Lance when he had the paper cup placed on his lips, knocking it with ferocity out of Lance's hand, causing it to spill on the floor in a hissing puddle of pink, the stench of alcohol rotting the basement's right air.

“Keith! What – ?”

“You tell me! What the fuck were you _thinking_ , drinking this garbage?” His voice was dripping with fury. So were his lungs, his muscles, his veins, his bones – every single part of his being was filled with hot, fiery anger. Keith was seeing red.

“I don't –“

“You don't _know_?” Keith was distantly aware that he was yelling, and that people all around turned to observe, but he couldn't bring himself to care, blind to his surroundings. “Let me tell you, then – you weren't thinking. Do you know how fucked up this is?” – he gestured at the cup on the floor – “You were about to put poison through your system, do you understand that?”

Lance looked like a mixture of mortified and stunned, not saying a word. Instead, the girl in the cat costume spoke up.

“It's just a little drink, relax,” she said, her expression innocent through her cat makeup, and Keith felt the anger in his body double within seconds.

“Just a little – are you _aware_ that he's a minor?” his voice was ablaze as he pointed at Lance.

“So what,” she said with a shrug, taking a sip of her venomous paper cup. “So am I.”

Keith was at a loss for words. He looked back at Lance, but all he could do was shake his head before he ran away and out of the basement, his throat threatening to choke him out of air, his Flight Theory textbook held hard in his left hand. It hurt, for some reason. It hurt, and Keith didn't know what to do with that pain, so he just kept running, view clouded by a screen of red blotches and angry tears.

Keith ran the way he came, seeing through hazy eyes the image of his legs flying up the stairs, leaping three at a time. They didn't feel like his legs – it felt like he was watching through someone else's eyes, or through a screen. His limbs felt numb. His body didn't feel his own, the only remnant of his life force being the throb of his heart and the anger prickling his skin like needles.

“Wait – Keith!” Lance's voice called from the basement, but Keith didn't stop or turn back to look, hoping to fly away on time back to his barrack, hoping to run until it was all behind him. He hated himself for even stepping into the basement in the first place.

"Keith!" Lance was persistent, coming upstairs after him.

Keith ran up, never looking back, hoping against hope that he would reach the safety of his dorm before either Lance or the tears stuck in his throat would catch up to him.

In the end, he managed to escape neither, tripping on one of the stairs with a hiss and landing on his knee. It was nothing more than a small scrape, nothing a child couldn't handle, but apparently something that Keith couldn't, because the moment he hit the ground, his tears began rushing out all at once, and Lance found him just like that, crying on the floor.

He approached him carefully, like you'd approach a wounded animal, slow and cautious, steady, so it wouldn't run. Keith knew he wouldn't – he didn't have the power.

“Jesus, Keith –“ Lance reached out a hand to put on Keith's shoulder, but Keith pushed himself away.

“Don't,” he hissed, feeling stupid with how broken and small his voice sounded. Maybe he really was a wounded animal.

Lance folded his fingers into a fist and tore his hand away, back to his side. Keith was practically clinging to the steel railing of the stairs. Lance sat down next to him, keeping a safe distance. He didn't talk.

“Why?” Keith found himself asking, his two hands placed on his temples, as if to shield himself from Lance's sorrowful eyes. “Why the hell would you want to drink alcohol?”

“Keith, I wasn't thinking –“

“No shit, you weren't!” Keith exclaimed, his tears running wild now. He buried his face in his hands. They were shaking, and his shoulders were shaking, and his lips were shaking, and he was no steadier at that moment, than the fallen fiery leaves in the autumn wind. He hated it – hated not being in control of his own body.

“I've seen what it does, Lance,” he mumbled into his hands. “I know what it'll do to you at first, what kind of spell it puts you under, and I know how later it's going to turn your life to shit. _What the hell were you thinking?_ ”

Lance remained silent for so long, Keith thought he left. Then, before Keith could bring himself to check, he said quietly, “Your dad.”

Keith chuckled at that, and it felt so bitter, it sent him into another wave of tears. He bit his lip as to not make a sound, knowing that if he did, he might never be able to stop crying.

“You're right,” Lance added solemnly. “I didn't think. That girl opened the bottle and I didn't think, and the alcohol poured and I didn't think, and I put the cup in my mouth and I didn't think. I'm sorry, Keith.”

“Don't tell me you're sorry,” Keith shot, grim, grave. “Tell yourself that – your future self, the you you wanted to be ten years from now. Tell that to the fighter pilot you almost just killed.”

“I didn't mean to,” Lance said, his voice wobbly now, too. Keith didn't dare to look up at him. Somehow he knew, he _knew_ that he wouldn't be able to bear the sight of Lance crying. “Keith, I'm so sorry.”

And just like that, Keith's lips slipped open, and he was crying – really crying, crying hard, like he cried when his father would throw his empty bottles at the wall, like he cried when he would scream at Keith to go to his room, like he never cried when he was lying still and gray inside a white coffin after being found dead in some back alley, his liver giving out.

Lance was crying, too, more like small breaths than the frantic painful cry Keith spilled into the palms of his hands. Then, Lance put a trembling hand on Keith's left shoulder, and pulled him into his chest, and Keith tried to shake his grip, tried to push him away, but the brittle fallen leaves had no chance against the wind and his own brain forced his muscles against him until there was no power left in him to repel, and he crashed into Lance's arms, wet face against his chest, his hand clutching onto Lance's shirt for dear life.

“I'm sorry,” Lance kept chanting quietly. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

They sat there, shaking and sniffling, until the tears on Lance's shirt had dried out, as they did on Keith's face, until all that was left of the cries were tiny gasps their lungs demanded, like the momentary fright of tripping on a stair.

 

october 31 st , 10:49 p.m.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Lance's voice was soft after the long wait of silence. His breath tickled Keith's neck, feathering shivers down his spine. “About your dad.”

Truthfully, Keith didn't want to talk about him. Although he was his blood and although he had raised him for the first few years of his life, he wasn't anything to him, not really. Keith didn't remember the time before he got consumed into glass bottles, and maybe he would've liked that version of his father, but it was pointless to try and imagine it.

Keith couldn't shift the still, stern image of his father that was stored in the depths of his mind, couldn't manipulate it to look like he was smiling, like he was happy, couldn't make himself believe that he ever liked looking at his rough features. The change from a happy man, from a good father, was slow and painful, but eventually – his dad was nothing but a hollow, cruel stranger to him, nothing fuller than the bottles their last house in Texas held on its floors.

Keith didn't want to talk about him, but he had to. He knew it was a wound festering inside of him, one of many infected scars on his heart, and he knew he had to let it go before it would consume him whole. He never dared to talk bad of his father to anyone, not even to Shiro, never dared to tell him the dependant rat he had become by his last days, never dared to tarnish the image of him, of the brave fighter pilot Shiro and everyone else had sewn in his mind. But Lance was different, unbiased, and his chest was warm against Keith's cheek, and Keith couldn't hold it in him any longer.

“I don't remember him much,” Keith muttered, his vocal chords weak and strained. “I remember once I had respect for him. I remember my mom left us, and how devastated he was. And I remember how his drinks changed him, slowly and deviously. Actually, no – I remember it being bad, then worse, then worst. It wasn't a change you could witness just by being around him, but more like something you could only understand the gravity of once you looked back at how much better he used to be.

He lost his friends. He lost his mind. Lost his will to live. And he lost me, if that ever counted. When he died, I was brought to the morgue before the funeral. I looked at his corpse, and it was like looking at a puppet. A wax figure. He was pale, and stiff, and reeked of alcohol. He was nothing to me anymore – I looked at him, and I felt nothing. I felt nothing, because to me, I had lost him long before that. Before he drank vodka like water, before he threw me around and talked to me only in screams, before he had lost my respect. I lost him when he put a gun shaped like a glass bottle in his mouth, and when he pulled its trigger. I looked at his corpse, and I felt nothing, Lance.”

Keith closed his eyes until Lance spoke, focusing on the steady movement of his chest and trying to get his own breaths to sync. He expected him to say what everyone said, a variation of “ _I'm sorry,_ ” or “ _my condolences,_ ” and everything else former friends, lost friends, had told to Keith the day his father was buried.

Instead, Lance said, “Sometimes it's hard to say goodbye to people we used to care about.”

“Sometimes,” Keith agreed, fingers fidgeting with the soft tear-stained fabric of Lance's shirt.

“But we have to,” Lance continued. “For the love we used to have for them.”

"What if I'm not sure I ever loved him?" Keith asked, an innocence right from the mouth of his twelve-year-old self.

“Then for any other meaningful feeling you had for him,” Lance answered, as if it was the most simple thing in the world. And maybe to Lance it was. “Because at the end of the day, those are what count. The feelings we have, the experiences we share, even the ones that are long gone. These things that come from inside us – they're more important than any skeleton in the ground of a person you don't even recognize anymore. For them you have to let him go.”

Keith kept his eyes closed, and conjured the image of his serious father to the front of his mind. It was muddled by years of not seeing his face, but Keith could smell his strong cologne, picture the rasp of his whitened beard. He thought back, far back, to a time when his mother was in his life, and his father had a fireplace still burning in him. He thought about how he felt about his fire. The emotion was hazy, but it wasn't the sickening fear Keith came to feel for him when he was fading away. It wasn't really love, nor complete respect. It was happiness – the happiness of a child in his father's arms, lifted so high he could hold the skies. It was happiness.

For his happiness.

Keith inhaled, then exhaled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably my least favorite chapter of them all yikes. IT GETS BETTER I PROMISE


	13. Desperate Measures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love projecting onto fictional characters!!!

Desperate Measures

 

November 18 th , 11:27 a.m.

After that Halloween party, things seemed to steer back to normal between Keith and Lance, but Keith believed that something fundamental had changed. Not in the way they acted towards each other – Lance was still careless as ever, as long as he was away from his jet models, his fingers stitching the statue together with great care and efficiency – and Keith kept being his usual self.

No, maybe that part wasn't completely true – he felt lighter almost, like he could move more freely. He had always heard the phrase “ _a weight off your shoulders,_ ” but he never believed the feeling would be so literal, muscles less tense, brow less furrowed.

He did sometimes feel like that Halloween night was still, ever-so-ironically, haunting them – its ghost felt with every time Keith would walk down the stairs alongside Lance, passing through the place where Keith fell on his knee like passing through a land scarred of a past war. Every time they did, Lance would – consciously or subconsciously – hang his arm around Keith's neck, or place his hand on his shoulder, or smooth his thumb over Keith's upper arm. Keith was grateful for it – he came to understand Lance's way of being, the way he communicated by touch, even if he still wasn't completely used to it.

In some ways, Keith felt like the tables had turned completely for them; now he had put his emotional baggage for Lance to either take or leave, and though Lance took – he took every time – but it never flowed the other way, leaving their relationship only half-sincere.

Keith never felt the need to know other people's lives, but with Lance it felt essential, like the feeling you'd get when you knew you were forgetting something important. For someone so socially extroverted, Lance was unusually unreadable, only his distant looks and blue smiles ripping through the seams of his cape of seemingly-unwavering confidence.

Not that that's what it was – once Keith had noticed Lance's small patterns of behavior, it was impossible to turn a blind eye. Keith knew every morning Lance could barely remember his own name, let alone keep concentrated for more than few minutes at a time. He memorized the days in which he would knock on Keith's door with clothes in his hands and a snarky promise to beat him at the air hockey in Quinn's arcade.

Most importantly, Keith knew by heart all the days he didn't, the days he would flee Mr. Harris' class the moment the bell rang, a different excuse on his lips every time. He didn't make much of it at first, though after days of repeated hasty escapes, Keith slowly fell into a constant state of fascination at Lance's disappearences, thinking that perhaps the better-fitting phrase to describe his relationship with Lance was “ _curiosity killed the cat_ ”.

One day at lunch, after Lance had left the table, Keith asked Pidge and Hunk about it, but they had no idea how to answer.

“But you sleep in the same dorm as him,” Keith protested. “You've got to know _something_. Does he come late at night? Is he an insomniac?”

Pidge placed a finger on her chin in thought. “I mean, he only comes in late whenever you guys study for your Flight Theory class.”

It was as if the air had frozen still around Keith, nothing moving at all, not even his breaths.

“Flight Theory class?” Keith muttered, mulling the words over and over in his head.“Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays.”

“Yeah,” Hunk confirmed. “Why?”

Keith prayed the smile he forcefully plastered on his face didn't didn't look as fake as it felt, and shook his head in response. "Just hoping he gets enough sleep," he said flatly.

If Pidge and Hunk were suspicious of anything, they didn't say a word. Keith didn't either, keeping quiet for the rest of lunch break, though his mind was racing inside.

Why would Lance lie – and where the hell did he go?

 

November 18 th , 2:45 p.m.

About ten different beeping watches tore the stale air inside Mr. Harris' classroom, cutting his lecture about the flimsy build of the first spacecrafts' bodies short – not that any cadet minded, closing binders and slipping notebooks and laptops back into bags, paying no attention to what their instructor had to say, desperate for lunch, rabid for freedom.

On the table next to Keith's, Lance was already throwing his bag over his shoulder and leaving the class.

“Wait up,” Keith said, trying to make his voice the most natural he could, gritting his teeth when it came out off, fake.

“Oh – sorry, gotta use the bathroom,” Lance said, giving an apologetic smile Keith didn't buy for a moment.

“Me, too.” Keith's gaze was pinned hard on Lance's embarrassed face. He wasn't great at lying, it was true – but he recognized a lie when he saw one, and Lance was lying through his teeth.

“It's urgent,” Lance mumbled, his smile tense and tone final, before scurrying out of the classroom.

Keith was left standing next to an empty desk, his packed bag in his hands. He let every other student walk past him, spreading to every corner of Galaxy Garrison like blood through veins, before he left the classroom running. He could have followed any of their footsteps, to the barracks, to the cafeteria, to the simulator rooms, to the satellite communication rooms, but his feet carried him elsewhere, carried him out of the Garrison and onto an empty highway in Nevada, guided only by a distant tan figure running for a big, wobbly bus.

Keith was a bad liar, but Lance? Lance was straight up terrible.

 

November 18 th , 4:50 p.m.

The next bus that arrived at the deserted station came one hour later – one hour in which Keith had to impatiently torture himself with the possible reasons for Lance's escapades. When the rocky bus finally did tumble down the road and _whoosh_ ed its doors open for Keith, Keith realized all of a sudden that he had no idea of where to leave – he considered Rachel, the alien town, seeing how happy Lance was when they went there for his birthday, but he didn't think it was likely that he'd go there again, with how little there was to do there. He also thought about the even smaller towns the bus line consistently passed by, or the towns it reached further south after Rachel, though Keith seriously doubted Lance would drive all the way to Las Vegas and back four days of the week. That had left Keith with only one probable destination – Quinn, Nevada.

It made sense for Lance to go there – when he first introduced Keith to the town, he had seemed to already know it by heart. Except the town was small, and Keith thought he had memorized its focal points himself. The whole scheme began falling apart in Keith's head as the bus got closer and closer to Quinn, finding plot holes left, right, and center.

It was too late to turn back now, though, and Keith had to push the ridiculousness of the situation to the back of his mind as the bus dropped him off by a big, washed out _Quinn, Nevada_ sign.

His brain sang a chorus of “ _what the hell am I doing?_ ”s as he walked through the tiny town, passing under draped strings of warm lights. Even in Nevada it was beginning to get colder, November blowing its cool winds down the desert, especially in the areas surrounding the mountains. Keith looked up at the draped fairy lights swinging and rattling by the grace of the wind, and he wondered if they really do melt the snow when it came, like Lance had promised.

He passed the half-empty shopping center and the buzzing tables in a walk, looking around but finding no sign of Lance. At the edge of the shopping center, Keith pushed the door of the tiny lit-up arcade, hoping to find Lance red-handed on the _Killbot Phantasm I_ game machine, though he found nothing but a bored cashier sitting at the front desk, swiping away on his cellphone.

Keith came to stand before him, but it was a long minute before he decided to tear his eyes from the screen and look up at Keith.

“Can I help you?” he asked, chewing a gum loudly at Keith.

“Yes,” Keith said. “I'm looking for my friend. We came in here once and played a bunch of video games?”

“Buddy, you'll have to be a little more specific than that,” he said, looking back at his phone.

“He's lanky, tan? Loves _Killbot Phantasm_?” Keith suggested.

The cashier looked him dead in the eye, placing his phone on the table and stopping the obnoxious gum chewing.

“I think I might know who you're talking about,” he said. “Yeah – didn't you two come in here and play air hockey a few weeks back?”

“Yes.”

“Man, you guys sucked.”

Keith inhaled slowly. “Look, I just need to know if you've seen him around lately.”

The guy scratched the back of his neck. “I could tell you... for a price.”

“Are you – Nevermind.” Keith whipped his wallet out and impatiently slapped a five dollar bill against the desk, like a win in a card game. “Just tell me where he is.”

The cashier took the bill and held it up against the light, studying it. Keith had to bite his lip to stop himself from screaming.

“Kay, looks legitimate enough for me,” the cashier boy said at last, shoving the money into the pocket of his pants. “Well, I haven't really seen him face-to-face, y'know? He hasn't come in the arcade since that one time you guys showed up here.”

Keith groaned, ready to turn around and leave, but the cashier said, “I have seen him around, though, so...”

Keith turned around at the speed of sound. “Around where?”

The cashier looked around, half-shrugging, and Keith rolled his eyes and slid another five dollars his way.

“Just around town, dude.” he pocketed the second bill, too. “Around the other side of the commercial center, Pizza Galaxy, somewhere there.”

“And where's that?” Keith asked, and before the cashier could give him another suggesting look, he slammed his hands against the desk. “ _Don't_ ask for more money.”

“Okay, okay, jeez!” the cashier slid back into his chair, showing his palms innocently. “Just turn left by the hotdog stand – there's a square. That's where I've seen him.”

Keith studied the guy's nervous face for one more second. “Thanks.”

"Yeah, anytime," the cashier mumbled hesitantly, going back to squishing his gum loudly.

Keith left the arcade, following the dubious instructions he was given. The hotdog stand was there, just like he said – it was one in a row of fast food stands, each one smaller than the next – and Keith turned left after it. At first he thought the cashier misled him, as he was walking in nothing but a plain passage typical to a town center, and it wouldn't be much of a reach to think that the guy wanted another five dollar bill – though it wasn't but a moment until he reached a small square, just like the guy said.

It was beautiful – similar in many ways to the main part of Quinn's shopping center, but different, too. The ground was a smooth black surface, like new concrete, and it had different planets and nebulas and suns drawn on it. Kids were hiding beneath tables, adding stars to the painting using chalk in a vast array of colors. The tables were round, just like in the wider square, but each had a round sticker of a planet stuck onto it, and each held a napkin holder in the shape of an old spaceship, the kind that Mr. Harris talked about in his class. The whole place was lit up by gentle teal fairy lights hanging from above, but unlike the main side of Quinn, those were shaped like stars, giving the place a rather magical quality.

Keith really did feel like he entered another galaxy. Waiters and waitresses were holding piles of pizza boxes against their light-blue uniforms and delivering them to the different tables by rolling across on colorful rollerskates, smiling all the way, sometimes tipping their magenta baseball caps at customers. They all slid back to a small purple building with a big neon sign on its top – Pizza Galaxy.

Right beneath the sign, a counter, with a long queue running up to it. And right behind the counter – taking orders and beaming, sky-blue uniform and bright-pink hat, Lance fucking McClain.

Keith came to stand behind the last person in line, his skin feeling prickly as the waiting list subsided and the buyers moved forward one at a time. At some point, he could clearly hear Lance's voice, asking for orders and repeating them while writing it all down, and for some reason that felt like a punch to Keith's gut. When at last the woman in front of him paid for her large pineapple pizza, it was Keith's turn to step up, leaning against the counter.

“Yeah, I'd like a medium size with olives on the one half, and Flight Theory homework on the other.”

Lance looked up from his notepad, eyes wide, and Keith's mouth eased into a smirk.

“I mean, since you're doing the homework with me right now, thought I'd ask you for them,” he added, shifting his weight from his heels to his toes in a bounce.

Lance's eyes fluttered closed, and he exhaled slowly in defeat. His forehead was sweaty under his cap, strands of brown hair clinging to his skin, and he looked so tired Keith was surprised he could stand at all.

“Wait there,” he muttered after a moment of silence, then disappeared behind the counter.

After a moment, he came into the patio from around the purple building in only his socks, skates held in his right hand by their shoelaces, and a small pizza box held in his left. He sat beside one of the smaller tables, and Keith dropped into the chair opposite to him, staring at each other across the blue planet of the table.

Lance dropped his skate boots to the ground and the pizza box on the table, opening it up to reveal four triangles of steaming olive pizza.Keith only grabbed one once Lance gestured at the box with his free hand, already biting into his own slice. They ate quietly for a while, neither daring to speak up.

Eventually, Keith broke the silence. "How long did you think you could keep this up?"

Lance shrugged, then looked around frantically. “Pidge and Hunk don't know, do they?”

“No,” Keith confirmed, and Lance eased back into his chair, biting into his second slice; he ate fast – he was hungry. “Why, Lance?”

Lance rolled his eyes. “See, that's why I didn't wanna tell you, any of you.”

“Well, it's too late for that now,” Keith said. “Can I at least know why you took the job?”

“Because,” Lance said, dropping his pizza back into the box and looking right at Keith. “I have to pay for my junior year somehow.”

“What?” Keith stopped eating then, too, perplexed. “But you got a –“

“A tuition?” Lance said bitterly. “Yeah, no. I was _offered_ a tuition... to be a cargo pilot. It was either a full scholarship for the whole year in cargo class, or nothing at all as a fighter pilot. I failed the simulation one too many times, Keith – they didn't think I could handle being fighter class.”

Keith stared at him, watching him chewing his pizza aggressively. Four days out of the week, Lance was juggling both school and work, his future career and a part-time job, just so that he could be a fighter pilot. He was overworking himself, and it was evident by his tired eyes.

"Look, it's fine," he added, not looking at Keith any longer, studying the planetoid table instead. "I'm getting paid properly, and this place is pretty cool. I'll quit once I have enough money to pay for the rest of the year, and senior year, since I don't know how that's going to go. For now, this arrangement works. Besides, all of my co-workers are really nice."

Keith wasn't feeling all that hungry anymore. Seeing Lance like that, exhausted and sweaty, a mess made of stress, made him feel sick to his stomach. The truth was, he didn't know what to say. He had no money to give to him, his own stay at the Galaxy Garrison being covered by scholarship after scholarship, and even if he did have any fund for Lance's junior and senior year, he knew the boney, sun-kissed boy nibbling at his pizza in front of him was way too stubborn to accept it, and that made him sad. No, it made him angry.

“I hate this,” Keith admitted through gritted teeth. “I hate seeing you like this. It's unfair.”

“Sucks to suck,” Lance said with a shrug. “And I guess I suck at being a pilot.”

“That's not true,” Keith shot immediately. “Whichever stuck-up former fighter pilot sitting in his office and handing tuitions is a piece of condescending, snotty shit for not giving you a scholarship.”

Lance huffed a bitter laugh. “Open your eyes, Keith – in case you haven't noticed, I took and retook all the flight tests three times each; I only vaguely understand Flight Theory; Andrea Sheinfield looks at me like second-class garbage, and so does Iverson. I'm a goddamn joke of a fighter pilot!”

“Stop saying that!” Keith protested a little too loud, gaining a few looks from the people in the tables around them. He added, voice softer, “ _Please_ stop saying that. I've seen how you looked at the jets in the tarmac, I've seen how you built your own. So many of those other people want to be fighter pilots for the glory, or to appease their overbearing fighter pilot parents – you have a real passion for it in you.”

“You've never even _seen_ me fly –“

“Doesn't matter,” Keith cut him short. “I've seen _you_ , Lance. I've seen how much you want it, how far you're willing to go for it – you've got a part-time job, for god's sake! – a score on a flight test, or three, or a hundred don't matter, especially when you were taught exactly zero real flight techniques before taking them. It's not about natural talent at all, or about the Garrison's stupid money management officials. It's about _you_ , Lance, and you are going to be one kickass fighter pilot.”

They were quiet for a while, Lance's gleaming eyes studying Keith's. then Lance said, “I still have to work here, though.”

Keith's heart sank, or went up to his throat – he wasn't sure. He leaned back, lacking words. There was only so much he could tell Lance, only so much clumsy pep-talk he could give. Lance still needed the money in order to finish junior year.

“Please don't tell Pidge and Hunk,” Lance said after yet another beat of silence. “It's just – I don't want them to look at me differently. The cocky fighter pilot with a part-time job. Sound like a sitcom.”

“I won't tell,” Keith promised. “But I think you should.”

“I don't want to be pitied,” Lance said, and Keith knew the unsaid words, _you of all people should know_. “The poor Latino boy! Stereotype much. I don't want to be that person in their minds.”

“You aren't – you'll never be,” Keith said. “You are to them what you are to me, a passionate, wicked-smart, exceptionally-loud guy with the most horrible puns and the warmest, brightest smile. You're Lance, and that's what matters to us.”

Lance's lips formed a small smile. "My puns are amazing," he said.

“Far from,” Keith said, “but we care about you regardless.”

Lance lifted his half-finished slice of pizza. “Now you're just being a pizza shit.”

Keith groaned and rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. It was good to have Lance back.

 

November 18 th , 11:47 p.m.

Keith had waited for Lance to finish his shift. At ten, the waiters began cleaning the tables and sweeping the floors before closing, and Lance kept trying to land tricks on his skates while holding a broom, which just looked like a weird tango with the broomstick from where Keith sat, though he didn't make that comment to Lance.

Eventually, the place closed completely, only the starry fairy lights remaining functional, and Keith walked by a clearly tired Lance back to the bus station by Quinn's edge.

“Keith,” Lance said seriously all of a sudden.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” he said, placing his hand on Keith's back and swiping his thumb, light and meaningful, over Keith's neck. “For what you said.”

“I meant it,” was all Keith could say, voice no louder than a whisper.

When they boarded the bus back to the Garrison, Keith took the seat next to the window, and Lance took the one next to it. He talked to Keith about some weird customers he had gotten, about the mistakes he used to make when he was new to the job, about his co-workers and about Quinn; he talked and talked until he didn't anymore, falling asleep with the bus's gentle rocking and swaying.

Keith thought he looked so small like that, like a kid falling asleep in the back seat of a car. At some point, Lance's head fell on Keith's shoulder, and it was almost a shame for him to have to wake him up when the familiar scene of the lonely road was visible from outside the window. If it were up to Keith, he would have stayed on that bus for hours.

 


	14. Anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the broganes dynamic owns my entire soul

Anything

 

November 19 th , 11:40 a.m.

The next time Keith saw Shiro, they were passing by each other in the hall. Keith was on his way to Harris' class, and Shiro happened to walk by, and though every muscle in his body was telling him to just keep walking, Keith halted in place.

“Shiro,” he said, jaw clenched hard.

Shiro, who didn't say a word to Keith anymore whenever they noticed each other, had already crossed Keith when that happened – and yet he turned around anyway, fast as lightning and heavy like thunder, a weight on Keith's shoulders.

He looked so hopeful Keith wanted to cry, and then run away – or run to him – and hug him, or maybe punch him – Keith wasn't entirely sure. Either way he remained set in spot, daydream fantasies, where everything was different, forgotten.

“There's something,” he forced himself to say. “Something I need help with.”

Shiro looked attentive. “Anything.”

“I know someone,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. “Someone good and skilled. He was given the option, either to get a full scholarship to be a cargo pilot, or get nothing for following his dream to be fighter class.”

“Keith –“

“I know him, and he deserves this stupid scholarship more than I do, more than anyone else does. You're an instructor here. I need you to get him that scholarship.”

Shiro looked away at the ground, shade falling on his features. “Keith, all the scholarships for this year have already been given. I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do.”

“Then why,” Keith gritted, voice quiet and hissing venom, “did you offer to do _anything_.”

“Keith, wait –“

But Keith was already long past Shiro.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so bad at posting regularly dskjsdlkjfgh anyway i think i'm gonna keep dumping two chapters at once every week


	15. Upon a December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring shameless reference in the title, christmas chapters long after christmas, iverson being the grinch, deck the hall discourse, and a lotta gay

Upon a December

 

November 26 th , 6:40 p.m.

The next few days passed in the blink of an eye, rolling away like the occasional dark cloud above Galaxy Garrison's campus. The middle of the school year was coming closer, too, and Keith had begun feeling the rising pressure already.

He stayed awake until midnight studying for Flight Theory, then tried to sleep until about an hour later, when he would actually fall asleep, and then wake up to go listen to Iverson yell at him as he tried to get his tired hands to do his bidding and build something that could endure the low-friction table in Iverson's office. Then he'd go to Mr. Harris' class, and the cycle would start over, the only change to that tiring routine being rare instances where he would bump into Shiro in one of the halls, and then live the rest of his day feeling either awkward, angry, or both.

And if it was hard for Keith, he didn't want to know what it was like for Lance – leaving Mr. Harris' classroom with a now-sincere goodbye to Keith on four days of the week, hoping to catch the earliest bus possible to Quinn, Nevada. On some of his shifts Keith visited him, studying by himself next to an empty table, then with Lance when he got to have a break. Sometimes Keith would leave halfway through Lance's shift, after Lance reassured him it was okay, and sometimes he would arrive at Pizza Galaxy late into Lance's shift, and they got to ride back together, Lance letting himself rest his head on Keith's shoulder all the way back, until Keith had to wake him.

And that had all been before finals began. The usual whispers of exam season flooded the hallways, the barracks, the cafeteria. People had begun bringing their textbooks to their tables, walking to class with their notes in their hands, spending lunchbreaks trying to cram as much information into their minds. Their own table was no different – if it wasn't Pidge with her eyes glued to her screen, it was Hunk searching his notes frantically, or Keith, along with Lance, testing each other on a fat pile of Flight Theory flash cards, or studying their cardboard jet models. Their communication was being cut shorter and shorter every day due to studying, but no one dared to challenge the mass of finals coming their way.

The first one was Flight Theory – that one Keith knew how to handle. He spent hours staring at his _History of Aeromechanics_ textbook, hours reading up, until the letters were scorched into his brain or until he couldn't understand their meaning any longer.

Many things he didn't understand – those he consulted with Lance about, reading him a sentence while he was cleaning tables and asking what it meant. Usually Lance had the answers – Keith knew Lance was exceptionally brilliant, because he was seldom confused about Flight Theory despite it being all about complex mechanisms, and despite it being hosted by the most boring man alive. He also never had to memorize things, something Keith was endlessly envious of, because he absorbed and spoke in pure ideas, and reading about the concept of a modern engine seemed completely logical to him, just like occasionally telling Keith about his favorite philosophical theories.

Some things Lance didn't get right away, though – mostly the physical attributes of astrocraft parts – and when both of them didn't understand something, they turned either to Hunk or to Pidge, who knew about all of those in much greater detail than Keith or Lance did.

And that way they did it – they beat their first final of the first trimester – Keith by straining his memory, Lance by being the brilliant boy that he was.

The second final was the trickier, though – Keith knew Iverson would not go easy on them in any way, pushing them harder and harder yet, and after he could ease off on the Flight Theory study, Keith focused all of his attention to the cardboard spaceships in his possession, studying them for all of the secrets he didn't know and all of the things he didn't understand about them. That was harder to do with Lance, as whenever he was on break and they would sit around a planet-painted table, Lance had no free hands to build a jet, eating his lunch and dinner which were always comprised of the same thing, pizza with olive toppings, while he could.

It had been like that, a seemingly endless cycle of straining study, until the end of November. When Keith arrived at Pizza Galaxy, Lance was already waiting for him outside, no sight of his uniform or magenta baseball cap. Then, just like the first time he had brought Keith to Quinn, a day that felt like ages ago, Lance grabbed Keith by the wrist and sped through the shopping center until they were standing before of the arcade.

“I have made a phenomenal discovery,” Lance announced, putting a hand on his chest, though he looked less official and more tired, his breath turning heavy after sprinting across Quinn. “About Iverson's cardboard spaceships.”

“Is that why we're standing in front of Quinn's arcade?” Keith asked, voice playful and eyebrows raised. Hazily, in the back of his mind, he realized that he had missed this, being around Lance for purposes other than eating pizza and studying Flight Theory.

“Yes,” Lance confirmed, and they stepped inside.

Lance exchanged some coins for tokens again, and Keith had to endure the awkwardness of the cashier avoiding his gaze. When Lance had the game tokens in his hand, he went straight to the air hockey table, and slid them in.

“What does air hockey have anything to do with Iverson's class?” Keith asked, brow raised.

Lance held up one finger in the air, while he opened his bag and pulled out a slightly wrinkled, but nevertheless intact, cardboard jet. When Lance held it up for Keith to see, its reflective black surface caught the colorful neon lights all around the arcade like a kaleidoscope. In his other hand, Lance lifted up the air hockey puck.

“Okay.” he took a deep breath. “for the disc to float, you need two things to happen – one, a low-friction surface it can hover upon” – Lance gestured at the air hockey table with the hand that was holding the miniature jet – “and two – you gotta have something that's light enough to actually hover on the surface. You'd be surprised by how few of those there are.”

Lance slid the puck across using the heel of his palm, and Keith caught it on the other side with two of his fingers.

“So?”

“So,” Lance continued, “if Iverson's table is anything like this air hockey table, where both the table and the strikers and the puck have to be made of materials that work together in the low-friction, the cardboard jets –“

“– are really not cardboard at all,” Keith finished, starting to get it, eyes narrowed at the puck under the tips of his fingers.

"Exactly," Lance confirmed, a proud smirk growing on his face. "I did my research. A material that is light, accessible and also responds to a low-friction surface, is exactly what that puck you're holding is made out of. It's called polycarbonate, and if I'm right about this, my poorly-made jet should do..."

Lance lowered his space shuttle model onto the air hockey table, then gave it a slight push. It floated – just like the puck, just like Lance predicted – all the way to Keith's end of the table, where Keith was watching stunned, like he had just witnessed magic before his eyes.

“This,” Lance said, crossing his arms and marveling at how his craft hovered at Keith's touch.

Just nudging it felt like a miracle, like touching a cloud, like every child's dream. Keith felt like he was bending reality itself when he did that. It was awesome.

“Lance,” Keith said, serious voice coming from a wide smile. “You're a goddamn genius.”

Lance pretended to be swiping dust off of his shoulders, but Keith shook his head. He had meant it, really. Lance was brilliant in ways the neon lights screaming in saturation inside the arcade could never afford to be.

"I'm serious," he added. "You're a genius, god – you've just solved one of your biggest problems single-handedly, do you understand that?"

“Let's not get carried away,” Lance's voice was unusually timid, the high points of his cheeks glowing pink. “There's still the actual test to pass.”

“But now you know how to,” Keith argued, and the sides of his face hurt from smiling so much. “This changes everything – now you have the winning card in your hand.”

“We,” Lance said, stretching his hand out on the table for his jet, them twirling its tip between his fingers. “I'm telling you this for a reason. If it weren't for you helping me out with Flight Theory I never would have had the time to even think about Iverson's jets. It's only fair if both of us use this new information.”

Keith thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Okay – then, you just solved _our_ biggest problem.”

Lance chuckled, half-shrugging. His cheeks were a warm rosy color. "Wanna play air hockey to celebrate?"

“Definitely.” Keith laughed, a crazy laugh, a relieved laugh.

And then the floating jet was kicked off of the dueling ground, and it was on with a kick of Keith's striker.

Lance broke the momentum of the puck immediately and struck back without a moment's hesitation, right into Keith's goal slot.

“Well played.” Keith nodded once.

“Oh, I'm just getting started,” Lance said, the spark of competition visibly ignited in him.

“We'll see about that,” Keith answered, voice lit in the same playful manner, then placed the puck back on the table, and shot it away again.

Lance didn't even bother to take the defense strategy, stopping Keith's throws and responding to them in the same breath, adjusted to fight Keith's fire with a fire of his own. The hard clinking of their strikers against the puck was music to Keith's ears.

“You got better,” Keith said.

“I learn fast.” _clank_.

“You got better,” Keith repeated, “But I'll still win.” _clack_.

Lance scoffed. “I'd love to see you try, mullet.”

It was on and off like that, both of them trying to tip each other off by playful banter and by throwing at confusing angles, trying to best their opponent. Eventually, they counted ten for Keith, ten for Lance. Then, Lance shot at Keith's exposed left side. It would have provided him with a sure victory, if not for Keith sliding the striker from the right side of the table to the left in the nick of time, grasping it in his left palm for dear life, and sending it over to Lance's goal.

“No fair.” Lance frowned while putting the disc back on the table. “Ambidexterity is cheating.”

“I believe what you meant to say is” – Keith kicked the puck right into Lance's goal slot, ending and winning the game – “ambidexterity is _awesome_.”

Lance rolled his eyes and slid his striker across the table in defeat, but he was still smiling, as was Keith. It was nice to catch a break, especially when they now knew how to treat Iverson's spaceships correctly. When they went outside, the skies were different shades of pinks and soft-reds, thin clouds scattered randomly all over them, the brightest stars beginning to reveal themselves before anyone that would look.

Lance's skin appeared more reddish than yellow in hue under the fairy lights and evening skies, earth-like. It was kind of ridiculous, Keith thought, that all those lightbulbs were draped over their heads, when the best ones came from a single boy's mind, shining brighter than a hundred lights and a thousand distant stars.

 

December 1 st , 11:40 a.m.

It was December, and so it was Christmas. There was no place without a reminder for the upcoming holiday, no spot uncharted of its approaching presence – walking in the students' barracks, every door was covered in mistletoes and festive decorations; the cafeteria and Mr. Harris' classroom were no different, being decorated by colorful fairy lights all over; maybe the only person who Keith hadn't seen talking about Christmas was Iverson, threatening the cadets – as usual – to study the miniature models they had made and apply their Flight Theory lessons on them. Keith didn't take him as seriously anymore, though – with each yell and each threat, Lance and he looked at each other knowingly, taking comfort in the ace up their sleeve.

Lance vowed Iverson was excited for Christmas, simply because everybody was excited for Christmas – "He acts stone cold, but I'm sure he's got a big family and a cozy, ugly sweater he meets every Christmas," Lance said – even those who didn't celebrate it got the longest holiday of the year, and God knew they needed a break with all the pressure of junior year.

Even Keith needed it, which meant that – yes, indirectly – he, too, was excited about Christmas. But he was also terrified.

Hunk had been the first to announce that he was leaving Galaxy Garrison and taking a plane away to be with his family. A few days after him, Pidge reported her temporary departure, along with her brother Matt and her father, instructor Samuel Holt, back home for the holidays.

And Lance? He didn't have to announce coherently his leaving – nobody had doubted for even a moment that Lance wasn't taking the first flight to his home, to Cuba – he talked about it more than anyone else, naming a bunch of different cousins and nephews and uncles and aunts he was going to get to see. Nobody kept track of the names, but they were all happy for him. They were all happy for everybody.

Except for Keith – and that scared him.

The thing was – it wasn't the first Christmas Keith had spent with no one important by his side. Each year as a kid, he would spend one with his father – fleeing the room when his wrath made him punch a wall, flipping him over when he fell asleep, bottle in hand, so that he wouldn't choke on his own vomit – _real_ festive. The Children's Home orphanage didn't host a much better Christmas – it was full of kids crying because the toy they had gotten as a donation from a church nearby had broken to pieces in their bony hands, and full of unfulfilled wishes for a family. When Keith got picked up by Shiro, he did have a meaningful holiday, but Keith could never enjoy it fully, not while he was studying at the Garrison by pity tuitions, not while he felt like he owed Shiro.

And yet it still felt as though this was Keith's first Christmas alone. His usual cafeteria table was buzzing with an argument about the name of a Christmas carol when Keith came to that realization.

“It's ' _Deck the Hall_ ', you uncultured swines,” Pidge claimed, slamming her hands on the table.

What would Keith do without Pidge's snarky commentary?

“No, it's ' _Deck the Halls_ ',” Hunk answered, frustrated. “Why would you only decorate one hall? It doesn't make sense!”

What would Keith do without Hunk's voice of reason?

“It's called ' _'Tis the Season_ ', guys,” Lance interjected.

What would Keith do without hearing his stupid sing-songy voice?

He then immediately shielded his face with his arms when Pidge and Hunk screamed all at once, “ _No, it's not!_ ”

What would Keith do in Christmas break without his friends?

 

december 6 th , 9:26 a.m.

At last came judgment day – Iverson's final.

They were all standing jittery in a row, fidgeting with shaky fingers, when Iverson showed up.

He stood before them and said, “Today, cadets, is the day to prove your worth. Don't waste it.”

The air felt still and stale when Iverson finally handed each of them the usual plastic bag, only this one looked like it contained a hundred more pieces than the previous exercises. Keith looked over to his left, where Lance gave him a nervous look.

“What's he playing at?” Lance whispered when Iverson was at the other end of the row.

“I don't know,” Keith huffed back. “But either way, it's going to be fine. Just like at the arcade, right?”

Lance nodded seriously. “Just like at the arcade.”

When he finished giving all the bags out, Iverson came to stand before the students again, hands behind his back in a deadly combination of pride and condescendence.

“The bags in your hands are sealed,” he announced. “If you open them, I'll know. I will be at my office, I will summon you one by one, and only then will you come to my office, open your bag, make your astrocraft, and hand it to me for judgment. This score will compose a great part of your final grade for junior year. Understood?"

“Yes, sir.”

Iverson turned halfway towards the building, but then he turned back around, the terrifying shadow of a smile on his face.

“Oh,” he added as if casual. “There are only twenty tickets for spending the second semester in my class. Math says, seven of you should start catching up on cargo pilot classes.”

And with that, he left them all behind, gaping and turned to stone. Keith felt like a gust of wind could knock him off his feet at that moment.

_That_ was what he was playing at.

 

december 6 th , 9:30 a.m.

Keith had never seen groups form so fast, abundances of students coming together in worried whispers, trying to extract tips from one another as to how to face the mighty challenge.

Like a bird out of the flock, Andrea Sheinfield came hovering in Keith and Lance's direction, head held up high and hands behind her back, almost as haughty as Iverson himself. Out of the corner of his eye Keith noticed Lance – perhaps subconsciously, perhaps not – straighten up and square his shoulders, as if he were bracing for impact.

“I won't waste time on niceties – clearly we don't have much more time to spend,” she said, looking warily at the building behind them. “I want to strike an alliance. You tell me how to get that perfect score, I'll help you out in the future, just like I saved your sorry asses with the paper planes. How does that sound?”

“Not convincing, to say the least,” Lance muttered, crossing his arms. “Besides, we're not all that great ourselves.”

Andrea rolled her eyes. “Play dumb with someone else, alright? I've seen how much better you've gotten in the past few classes. What's your secret? I told you mine.”

“Are you blackmailing us?” Lance asked, unable to mask the disturbance in his voice.

“We've never asked that of you,” Keith said, interjecting before Lance could say something worse; voice cautious, stance guarded. “We've never asked anything of you.”

Andrea looked him dead in the eye. “I expected this sort of behavior from the likes of...” her voice trailed off, shooting a glare at Lance from the corner of her eye, then looking back at Keith. “Him. I really thought you knew better, Kogane.”

“I'm sorry, Andrea,” Keith said, quiet and strong. “I just don't think we owe you anything.”

Andrea Sheinfield clenched her jaw. She looked terrifyingly pale in the weak morning light, her eyes appearing lifeless. Then, she turned around and walked away without another word.

“Did we just –“ Lance said after she had gone, blinking a couple of times in confusion. “– get ourselves a rival?”

Keith looked at Andrea studying her plastic bag from a distance. She looked like she was about to dissect a corpse instead of build a jet. The thought sent shivers down his spine.

“Sheinfield is no rival,” he concluded. “We made ourselves an enemy.”

 

december 6 th , 9:43 a.m.

The wait was agonizing torture before it was Keith's turn to meet Iverson in his office – he called up students by order of last name, which meant he was pretty far into the list, but still before Lance, who had been bouncing his yo-yo nervously throughout the whole wait. The students came and went, each coming back only to call up the next one on the list, looking paler than they were when they limped into the building on shoes made of lead.

Keith tried to tune out the survivors' horror stories, but it was impossible. By the time he was called up, he had heard about fifteen different versions of the extra-difficult jet model Iverson let them build, about his death-stare, and just about every possible thing he didn't want to happen to him in that test. The guy who called his name looked like he was about to break into tears, running up to his friends to tell them everything as soon as Keith got the message.

But before Keith could leave with heavy steps to Iverson's office, Lance grabbed his hand.

More so his fingers than his hand, actually, putting pressure on Keith's knuckles in a gesture that felt oddly warm and comforting. Lance's fingers were longer than Keith's, and more slender and tan. His fingernails were a pink color that complemented his dark skin, smooth and shiny, nothing like Keith's which were unkindly pressed back into his finger pads. Keith wondered if it was a nature-nurture thing – if the reason his hands were so much rougher and harder was because of him using them for such harsh things, while Lance used his to make use of his golden, polished thoughts. To be gentle, to be kind.

“Break a leg,” Lance said, and Keith could notice his nervousness by voice alone.

Keith squeezed his fingers back, then let them go.

 

December 6 th , 9:46 a.m.

“You have five minutes from now. Go.”

The bag ripping open was a gritting sound. Under Iverson's judging eyes, Keith spread the jet pieces onto the desk. Then, he began assembling them.

The first shapes that came together were, as usual, the most obvious ones – the wings of the astrocraft. Keith put as much care as he could in forming them, as they tended to be the ones most flimsy on the low-friction table. Then, he placed the wings on opposite sides, and began constructing the shuttle's body around them, making sure every part fit and remained in place before moving on. Eventually, although the amount of the pieces was ridiculous, and Keith felt like he was on the verge of losing his mind – there was an astrocraft standing on Iverson's table. Keith hadn't noticed the sheer amount of pressure on him, until it was off, sweat trickling down his neck and a sigh of relief on the edge of his lips.

“Very well done,” Iverson said, though his face remained the same. “Building the wings first is a very unusual move. Not very calculated, I must say.”

“If I was building a car I would have put the wheels first,” Keith said simply.

“Yes, I suppose you would,” Iverson muttered, studying Keith. “Let me tell you something, Keith Kogane, something about you – you're a fire. I can see you burning to be a fighter pilot, anyone can. The problem with fires, though? They're temporary, always. They burn themselves out if they're not handled with care. Every fire needs to be tamed to last longer.”

Keith didn't answer. He didn't emote. He stared right at Iverson, until his instructor sighed and placed his jet on the low-friction table. It floated like magic, and Keith had to hold himself from sighing, too.

Iverson nodded to himself, but all he said to Keith was, “Dismissed, cadet. Call Kurz up.”

Keith didn't waste another moment in the suffocating office.

 

december 6 th , 10:11 a.m.

Keith was studying by his desk when his door was knocked on – or more accurately, smashed on – three times. He had barely opened the door a crack when Lance stormed into his room, breathing hard like he was running.

“How did it –?”

“Amazing!” Lance said, but he looked distressed, eyes wide in panic.

Keith sat back down on his swivel chair. “If it went amazing why are you –?“

“Because it's bad luck! If I ever think something is going well, it probably went terribly. That's how my brain works,” Lance exclaimed, falling onto Keith's bed without a second thought. “It was just – all so fast, and – and we studied for so long! – and –“

Keith chuckled at that, and Lance made a face. “You're just overwhelmed,” he told him.

Lance took a deep breath, looking immersed in thought. Then, he said, “You're probably right,” he said, his shoulders falling.

Keith just lightly patted his shoulder, a small touch, but a meaningful one. “One less worry.”

“Except not,” Lance said, his face suddenly dropping. “What if I'm one of the seven? The ones getting kicked out?”

“You're not getting kicked out,” Keith said, rolling himself closer to where Lance was now lying on his bed. “I don't think anyone is. Iverson seems like the type to only threaten. If there is something we need to worry about, it's Sheinfield.”

“Oh, _god_ ,” Lance muttered, his whole face sour before he buried it in his hands. “Don't even remind me.”

“What was it?” Keith was trying hard not to smile. “' _I didn't expect this kind of atrocious behavior from you, Kogane._ '”

“ _'I want to strike a bargain with you mortals,'_ " Lance imitated with a ridiculously broken, high-pitched voice his vocal chords couldn't take. " _'Take it or perish forever.'_ ”

“ _'How dare you belittle my presence by not revealing me all of your secrets?'_ ” Keith joined in with the Andrea impersonation, voice just as ridiculous as Lance's.

They looked at each other dead in the eye, then they cracked up laughing all at once, so hard Keith was sure the nearby dorms were all hearing the two crazed juniors having their crazed senseless fun.

“Man, can you believe it's almost the middle of the year _already_?” Lance said quietly after they had calmed down. He was still clutching to his stomach, as his eyes, which looked tired at the moment, held two pearls of tears at their corners – maybe from exhaustion, maybe from their fit of laughter. “I feel like it was yesterday when we'd met undressed at the laundromat, and you complained about how Pidge kept dragging you to all sorts of shit.”

“You told me you knew someone just like her,” Keith reminded him.

Lance burst into another fit of laughter, though that one was short-lived. “ _I_ was talking about Pidge.”

“Well, guess no one compares to Pidge.” Keith huffed a chuckle.

“Guess not,” Lance agreed, then sighed. “I pity her mom, you know – having both her _and_ her brother at the house at the same time? Yikes. Nothing like Hunk and his siblings, all caring and loving and shit.”

“What about yours?” Keith asked quietly, studying Lance with soft eyes, his thoughts a see-through glass.

"We're fine," Lance said, voice flattening. He was staring at the ceiling like a much-rehearsed script was written on it. "Not as amazing as Hunk and his family, not as devilish as Pidge and hers. We're... fine." he took a deep breath, then asked, "How are you and Shiro?"

Keith looked away, folding the edges of his now-closed _History of Astromechanics_ book that was lying on his desk. Actually, that wasn't true – that book was landed to him by Shiro. That desk used to be the desk standing in Shiro's office. The chair he was sitting on, too. The bed used to be Shiro's, and the carpet on the floor used to be Shiro's, and the whole room used to be Shiro's. Keith wondered if he had anything of his own at all.

Keith was sure some random lie would spill out of his mouth naturally when he opened it, which was why he was so surprised to taste the truth on his lips.

“Shiro's away,” he said. “Not literally away, but...”

“Away from you,” Lance completed.

"Away from me," Keith confirmed. He sighed, leaning back in his chair, feeling a sudden need to rip the pages out of the Flight Theory textbook all at once. "It's complicated. I don't really –"

“No problem, dude,” Lance said, as casual as ever. “I was just asking because, you know – it's Christmas.”

“So?”

“So,” Lance continued, taking his yo-yo out from his pocket and fidgeting with its string. “I don't like the thought of you spending it alone.”

“Lance, you have stumbled upon the least religious person in this entire institution,” Keith said, crossing his arms.

Lance frowned. “I'm not talking about religion. It's a long holiday, Keith, the longest of the whole school year. Spending so much time alone can't do you good.”

“No, it can't do _you_ good,” Keith argued. “Me, on the other hand? I get a break, finally.”

Lance shook his head. “I don't like the thought of you spending Christmas alone,” he repeated, solemn.

And what could Keith say? Deep down, he didn't like it either. Luckily, he didn't have to conjure a good answer, because the next time he turned to look at Lance, he found him asleep, his chest drawing in steady breaths.

Keith knew he was working harder than ever to cover for the time he'll be away for Christmas break, and watching him sleep was the biggest reward he could ask for. A Christmas present, even – this Christmas, Keith wanted Lance to get some rest.

 

December 7 th , 1:08 a.m.

That night, Keith had a dream.

It was rare for him to dream, maybe because he hated it; if it was a good dream, it felt bad to wake up from it to the bitterness of reality, and if it was a bad dream, it felt bad just to dream it. Keith had a theory, that dreams were made for children, because as he grew up, his brain conjured them less and less, letting him rest in empty blankness. Because dreams were made for people who believed in a different reality formed by the clouds of thought in their head, and Keith wasn't that person since he was a child.

In Keith's dream, it was already Christmas, and that somehow didn't come as a surprise to him. He was still in Galaxy Garrison, albeit a different one, as when he walked into where the cafeteria should have been, he was met with a cozy living room he'd never seen.

It had a fluffy carpet and two sofas, and it was decorated all over with Christmas decorations. In the middle of it, there was a big Christmas tree, the kind that belonged in town squares of the Texan towns he spent time in as a kid. Around the tree, there were a bunch of presents wrapped by an array of colors and patterns, and around those, his friends were seated, ripping the gift paper off of any box they could get their hands on.

Pidge was wearing a green onesie with the drawings of paper airplanes scattered all over it; she wasn't wearing her glasses. Hunk was right next to her in a Santa hat, studying and shaking a large gift-wrapped by yellow wrapping paper. Right next to him, was Lance, and he was the one least affected by the bizarre dimension of Keith's dream, wearing his regular clothes and touching no present. In fact, he was doing nothing but smiling at his yo-yo as he was bouncing it in front of Keith.

“You're not opening your gifts,” Keith found himself saying despite his will.

“Well, duh,” Lance said, still focused on his yo-yo. “I was waiting for you.”

“Me? Why?”

Lance laughed, then gestured at the tree. “You wanted me to,” he told Keith, and somehow, that wasn't surprising to Keith either in the depths of his hazy state. Then he whispered, “You need to see it.”

When Keith looked over, the tree was on fire. Then, somehow, they were gone all at once, and Keith was left in front of the fire. It burned ever-brighter, but when Keith reached his fingers to touch it, it was so cold it hurt.

“Don't touch it.” a familiar hand swatted his own away.

Shiro was standing right next to him, watching the fire, too.

“I'm not a child,” Keith heard his voice say.

“I know,” Shiro said, nodding seriously. “But don't you wish you were?”

“You shouldn't be here,” Keith said.

“Then why,” Shiro replied, “are you dreaming of me?”

And then Keith woke, all of a sudden, tearing the fabric of dream and being back in his dorm. He was breathing hard. The air in the room was cold, but Keith was sweating. The clock on his table showed _01:08_ , and Keith watched the numbers change until his room was flooded by the morning light.

 

december 7 th , 10:11 a.m.

It was a saturday, which meant only extra classes.

Being the day before winter break, and a useless day on its own, Keith could afford to lose those classes, and apparently so could Lance, so they both ditched Garrison grounds to hop on a bus to Quinn.

On the way there, Lance was writing furiously at a notepad, scribbling across words and muttering things to himself, all while shaking his head.

Keith examined his messy handwriting with a furrowed brow. "Is everything –?"

“No, no, no!” he said, grabbing the sides of his head. “ _Primita_ Isa isn't old enough for a toy truck! What do two-year-olds even like?”

“Uh...”

“Exactly! They don't like anything! They only enjoy chewing at stuff and crying! Guess what, Isabella, I enjoy that, too!” Lance was running his pencil so hard on the paper that it tore.

“Can I just ask,” Keith added hesitantly as Lance was attempting to recover the torn page by clear tape. “ _What?_ ”

Lance sighed, smoothing over the taped spot with his thumb. “Winter break is here soon, I figured it was time to organize the _real_ hard stuff,” he said, then when Keith looked clueless as to what he was talking about, he added, “Christmas gifts.”

“Oh,” Keith said. “So Isabella is...”

“My cousin of two,” Lance said. “I figured I would get the adults some kind of stupid touristic fridge magnet from Quinn, but I'm breaking my head over what to get the kids.”

“Do you have to get her something? I mean, she's just two,” Keith suggested.

Lance looked at him dead in the eyes. “Keith, I'm Latino. If I know the name of someone in my family, they'll be there for Christmas. That means I have to get _everyone_ something to be cool. No one wants to be that uncool relative,” he said. “Besides, Isabella is one of seven. _Seven_ children, do you understand? I'm practically Snow White. And each of them is a different age, and I have no idea what they like. This is basically Mission Impossible.”

Keith only wished he knew how to help, but he didn't have any money to buy any gifts, and he didn't have any people to give the gifts to, anyway. Lance's family life was so different than his own that it was almost comical to Keith, but Quinn, Nevada, had a way of blurring the differences between them.

The town was colder than the Garrison grounds when the bus dropped them off at the welcome sign. The weekend was felt in the air, barely anyone at all in the shopping center. Christmas was felt, too, all the tiny shops and restaurants decorated already with green and red and gold.

Lance didn't get to see any of it, though – his eyes were stuck on the list he made on his notepad as they were walking, and Keith had to occasionally steer him out of the way before he was met head-on with a pole or a table. At some point he did look up, glancing around for no longer than a second, before running up to a convenience store.

By the time Keith got there after him, Lance was already scanning the shelves at the front of the store. There was a shelf full of different porcelain magnets in what Keith assumed was the shape of Quinn, since the word Quinn was plastered all over them, each one in a different font. Lance counted them under his breath in Spanish, pointing a finger at each magnet, then grabbed half of them and fled to the counter, where a middle-aged blonde woman stood, watching in awe, as Lance kept running around the store and grabbing stuff.

Keith felt the need to give an apologetic smile to the gaping cashier as Lance finished piling all of his souvenirs on the counter, and asking, out of breath, “wrap them all apart, please.”

Eventually, they exited with a ring of the bells hung on the front door, the cashier waving them goodbye nicely after Lance bought just about half of her store.

“Alright.” Lance checked off a series of boxes from his list. “My pocket isn't happy, but I'm relieved. Now just seven gifts for the little dwarves, and four for my siblings. I mean, three. Those I'll buy at the airport – I don't trust Quinn to have anything other than overpriced magnets in its shape.”

Keith nodded. “Your flight,” he said. “When is it?”

Lance looked up, wide-eyed. “I thought you knew,” he said.

“Knew?”

“Duh, this is why I'm so stressed!” he said, whipping his notepad in the air. “It's today! Well, actually, tonight. I'm not missing a day of this vacation.”

Keith blinked a couple of times, taking it in. “Oh.”

He didn't know why it was suddenly a weight on him. He knew Lance was leaving from the moment the calendar showed November was over, but it was still a surprise that he'd have to say goodbye so soon. He half-expected Lance to stay on Garrison grounds for the first week of the holiday, or maybe half-hoped. Keith thought it was silly that it suddenly concerned him.

“Yeah,” Lance said. “And guess which airport I'm going to?”

Keith sighed. “Don't say Vegas.”

“McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas, Nevada,” Lance said, smug. “Do you think I can sneak into some casino?”

“I don't think you'll dare to waste any more of your school funds,” Keith replied in the same tone.

“For your information, mullet, I've got exactly 20 hard-worked-for dollars that I am gladly going to spend on some sweet, sweet game machines in the arcade.” Lance patted the pocket of his blue jeans, flashing a big, crooked grin.

It ached in Keith's chest. He would miss that smile.

 

December 7 th , 12:23 p.m.

That day, Lance finally beat him at air hockey – the match was tight, but Keith thought about how he wasn't going to get to do this for the next few weeks towards the end of it, and that was a blow to his attention span. From there, Lance seized every opening he saw, striking and striking and striking, until not even Keith's trained ambidextrous hands could beat him.

“I let you win,” Keith mumbled grumpily as they approached the _Killbot Phantasm I_ machine.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance said, swatting his hand in the air. “Didn't take you for a sore loser.”

“After Christmas break,” Keith promised, “we're having a rematch. Then I'll beat you.”

“We'll see, flower boy,” Lance said, and his voice was competitive, but his expression was soft. He hadn't called Keith that for a long time, and that sent waves of nostalgia at Keith, long overdue nostalgia, pushing Keith in harsh gusts of wind, carrying images of Lance he had saved for later, images that felt old and good, of him in the laundromat – the first time Keith had seen him, of him meeting him a second time in the beginning of the year, seizing his shoulders in his hands and looking at him, stance straight.

Lance stood square now, too, in front of his favorite game machine, slipping a few tokens into it. Soon, the game began, and Lance was frantically moving the yoke around, spinning joysticks and pressing buttons. He was concentrated – Keith could see by the way his mouth was pressed thin and slanted, and by the way the tip of his tongue peeked through his lips.

Keith didn't know when he first noticed it was a thing that Lance did, pressing his tongue against his lips when focusing hard, but at some point he did, and it felt like something important to remember, something you had to know, like knowing how to spell your name, or knowing who was the first president. Something the world would be doomed without, like the way Lance would bounce his yo-yo, or how he would fidget with the hems of his sleeves when he was uneasy, or the way his eyebrows moved like they had a mind of their own, and all of his habits.

“Your turn,” Lance said, looking up at Keith. His skin reflected the colors of the arcade's neon lights right back.

“I don't really want to –“

But Lance had already slipped another set of tokens into the machine, and nudged Keith to where he was standing a moment ago.

Then, the game began again, and Keith was clueless as to what to do, so he just did everything, pressing every button to Lance's horror.

“Help me,” Keith found himself mumbling, feeling just as hazy as he did in his dreams, voice far, vision not his own.

He felt his pulse at his throat, and on the tips of his fingers. Lance came around him, just like that last time they had played that game, stretching his arms out over Keith's own and taking some of the controllers. He was saying something, but Keith couldn't figure out what exactly, even though he was talking right behind his ear, breath tickling his neck. Keith thought his earlobes must have turned red, because he could hear the roar of his blood flowing through them like a river, like the threat of the game was real, like he was really fighting monsters, as his character did on screen. Some part of him, in some way, thought he was. He swallowed, and his throat felt tight. His whole body was made of the pounds of his heart. Maybe his whole soul, too.

Then, just as quickly as Lance nudged him before the game machine, Keith left it, slipping out of Lance's arms around his from beneath them, like walking under a bridge, and leaving the arcade completely.

Something was off, something dangerous. He took in gulps of Quinn's fresh air into his lungs, trying to clear his head. He felt like he was burning hot, like his face was hot, and his chest, and his ears and his hands. Keith felt between too lucid to too hazy, and it overwhelmed every piece of him.

“Keith,” Lance said from behind him. When Keith turned, his eyebrows were knitted together in worry. Mind of their own. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine,” Keith said, then looked down at the palms of his hands for some reason, then looked up again. “I was just a little suffocated at the arcade, that's all.”

“Oh,” Lance said. “Are you okay now?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_.”

Lance studied Keith's face until he deemed it alright.

“Okay,” Lance said. “Well, we lost the game, but that's probably for the best. That score would _not_ have been much more impressive if we stayed. Hey, look at that!”

And within a second he was running towards the other side of the shopping center. This time, Keith knew exactly where he was running to, as the stand caught his eye, too. He managed to get there right after Lance paid for him, handing the man behind the stand a few coins for the both of them, who then in turn handed them one of the finer treats in life.

“Cotton candy!” Lance exclaimed, ripping from the pink cloud in his hands a piece and shoving it into his mouth. He was smiling. Keith was smiling, too.

Instead of going straight to the bus station, they found an empty washed-out bench and sat on it.

“So you're leaving today,” Keith said, ripping small chunks of cotton candy clouds. He wasn't eating them.

”Yeah,” Lance said through crunching on the grains of sugar in his mouth. He had decided to drop the picking and eating technique for the just-going-for-it way, eating from the stick of cotton candy like it was a chicken leg. "An international flight, then an in-country plane, tons of hours of wait, not looking forward to it. But, it'll be worth it."

Keith nodded, twisting bits of his own candy. When he placed them in his mouth, it was an empty sort of sweetness, the puff melting away on his tongue.

“Keith,” Lance said then, voice unusually serious.

Keith turned to him, but Lance was looking ahead, away.

“You'll hate me for saying this,” he said, “but I think you should talk to Shiro.”

Keith scoffed. “You're right – I _do_ hate you for saying that.”

Lance frowned, now turning to Keith. His jaw was set solemnly, which made his chin appear sharper. “I knew that, and I said it anyway. Look, Keith, I don't know much about the guy – aside from the obvious legendary pilot stuff – nor do I know about your situation with him.”

“That's right, you don't.”

“– But,” Lance continued, making a point to ignore Keith, “You can't spend the holidays alone. And Shiro is right there for you –“

“I'm not having this conversation,” Keith muttered, getting up.

Lance grabbed him by the wrist. His grip wasn't strong, but his touch was demanding, so Keith remained in place.

“Listen – I understand you guys aren't the best of friends,” he said, his brow low, grave. “I get that he might have fucked up, or that you did, or both of you. But you have to try to fix things. You can't spend Christmas alone.”

“Will you stop saying that?” Keith shook his hand from Lance's grip with a fast motion. “It wasn't convincing the first time, and it won't be now. You don't know anything about whatever happened between Shiro and me, so just leave it!“

“I know you two were brothers,” Lance was now standing, too, his cotton candy gripped tight in his hand, his tone a dangerous thing. “And I know a shitty brother is better than no brother!”

Keith drew back at that. Lance seemed to have, too. They were both staring at each other wide-eyed. They would have gotten some stares, if Quinn weren't so empty. Empty – that was how Keith felt at that moment.

“Shit,” Lance mumbled. He put his palm on his eyes and squeezed, his whole face going bitter, before he stretched it down like stretching dough, unkind, when he pulled his hand away.

“Shit,” Keith agreed. He didn't feel just empty now – he mostly felt pity. Unexplained pity – at Lance, and pity at Shiro, and most of all, pity at himself, for allowing things to roll this far down. It was an addictive substance, self-pity, and Keith was constantly, perhaps pathetically, under the influence.

He knew Lance was right, of course, at the depths of his mind, under a sea of denial. Being right was a very Lance thing to be, but now more so than ever. Keith needed to talk to Shiro, even if it was the hardest thing he'd ever do. Not because it was Christmas, but because it was Shiro. Keith's chest felt heavy, and he was desperate for that feeling to pass.

“No, I don't want it to be like this,” Lance said, decided. “I don't want our goodbye for Christmas break to be an argument.”

“This wasn't our goodbye,” Keith replied, “but let's just forget it.”

“Please,” Lance said, not masking the reget in his voice. “I didn't mean to –“

“Shut up,” Keith said.

Lance blinked – then his lips formed a little smile, and then he hurled himself over Keith in a tight hug, lifting his cotton candy over their heads. Keith hugged him back with his free arm, hard, and he felt a sudden choke of tears clog his throat that he hurried to bite his lip hard to get rid of.

“I'm going to miss you,” Lance said, then, voice small.

“ _I'll miss you, too,_ ” Keith wanted to say.

“ _I don't want you to forget me,_ ” Keith wanted to say.

“ _Don't let me go,_ ” Keith wanted to say.

Instead, Keith didn't say anything, replying only with the pressure of his arm against Lance's back.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe these were their goodbyes.

 

December 7 th , 6:49 p.m.

Lance left the Garrison come evening, just as the sky was falling dark, and Pidge, Hunk, and Keith were there to wish him a nice trip and a merry Christmas.

He hugged them all, together, fake-tearing-up after doing so, right when a taxi came hovering over. Hunk helped him place his luggage in the trunk, and just like that he left, waving goodbye.

When Keith looked over to Hunk and Pidge, they were sniffling and crying, for real.

“What –?”

“It's always like this,” Hunk said, wiping the corner of his eye with the knuckle of his finger. “He's always the first to leave on Christmas break.”

“I hate him!” Pidge rubbed her nose against the back of her hand until it was red at the tip. “Stupid little shit. I wish he would have stayed longer.”

“What the hell is happening?” Keith asked with a huff.

“Can't you see?” Pidge said. “We're crying about Lance.”

“So that we don't have to cry about his mess for the rest of the year,” Hunk added.

Keith wanted to cry about Lance, too, if he was being honest. Instead, he laughed his ass off.

“I'm telling him about this when he comes back,” Keith said, then ran off back into the Galaxy Garrison grounds, Pidge and Hunk scurrying after him and shouting threats.

 

december 7 th , 7:56 p.m.

Dinner was quiet in the Garrison's cafeteria. Lance wasn't the only one who left that evening – it seemed that half of the students did as well, by the looks of the mostly vacant cafeteria.

“Man, eating here is _not_ the same without him,” Pidge said, fidgeting with her spaghetti using her fork.

“I know, right?” Hunk looked close to tears again. “This place feels empty without him.”

“This place _is_ empty,” Keith said, dropping his fork onto his empty tray with a sigh. “But I know what you mean. When are you guys leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning my dad will be picking me up, and a cab will be coming here for Hunk,” Pidge said, leaning back onto her chain with a yawn. “God, I can't wait to fight Matt over our old computer again. Really gets me into that holiday spirit.”

“Morning is kind of a stretch for me,” Hunk said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I'm leaving at 4 a.m. My flight takes off at 7. Gotta be quick.”

Keith nodded. They stared at him.

“When are _you_ leaving?” Pidge asked finally, and Keith felt stupid for not realizing the question was coming.

“I'm not,” Keith said, gaining a gasp from Hunk, which in turn gained him a hit from Pidge's elbow.

“Then stay close to your phone at all times,” Pidge said, then pretended to brush dust off of her shoulders in pride. “I'll send all of you the dankest memes. Holiday edition.”

She and Hunk both got up, patted Keith's shoulder (Pidge harder than Hunk), and waved goodbye on their way to their dorm. Pidge gestured at her phone, and Keith rolled his eyes.

And then he was alone, alone in Christmas break.

He threw the contents of his tray to the trash, then stopped on spot. Keith knew he had to talk to Shiro, if not for him, for Lance.

He remembered it when he left his tray above the trashcan, and when he went in the direction of the barracks, and when he got in his dorm and shut the door behind him, like a promise that he never made.

Then he took a cold shower and buried himself in the blankets of his bed, body numb, thinking there was something that he was forgetting.

Shiro could wait.

 


	16. Fever Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact that isn't that much fun: i wrote this when i was sick myself so a lot of projecting.

Fever Dreams

 

December 10 th , 8:40 a.m.

When Keith woke up that day, he was on fire – or at least, that's what it felt like.

He kicked his thick blankets off to see his clothes were clinging to him, completely drenched by sweat. Except he felt freezing, too. He wobbled into the shower, letting the water wash away the debilitating feeling, only it didn't, and Keith felt even more terrible when he walked out of the bathroom than when he walked in.

A hand pressed hesitantly on his forehead told him he was under the cruel claws of a fever.

Keith grunted, falling back on his bed. He was less upset by the fever's effects on him, than he was by the fact that he _had_ a fever. The last time Keith was visited by sickness was at the Children's Home orphanage, and even then, his fever wasn't that high.

This time around, the ceiling of Keith's dorm was spinning before his eyes. It was useless to pretend it wasn't happening, but Keith was willing to give that strategy a try.

He got up, put on clothes, and left his barrack in small, unstable steps towards the cafeteria.

Keith never got to actually be in the cafeteria for breakfast, though. He collapsed halfway there, feeling the earth spin.

 

December 10 th , 9:22 a.m.

The next time Keith woke, he saw his father, and that meant he was dead.

“Dad?” he said, voice dry that sounded nothing like his own.

Then, his eyes focused, like a curtain of fog scurrying away, and it wasn't his father standing over him anymore. It was Shiro.

“Shhh,” he said, placing a cold palm over Keith's forehead.

“Are you here because of what Lance told me?” Keith heard his foreign voice mutter from afar. “I broke my promise, didn't I?”

“Shhh,” he said again, running his fingers through Keith's hair.

Keith fell right back to sleep.

 

December 10 th , 10:14 a.m.

Keith's head felt heavy, and his knuckles felt weak, and that's how he knew he was awake even before he opened his eyes.

When he did, he was greeted with nothing but white walls and Shiro's concerned face. He was sitting next to where Keith was lying, but Keith didn't have the strength to look down. It felt like moving too many muscles, and he barely even had the strength to keep his eyes open.

“What the fuck?” were Keith's first words, and that made Shiro laugh. Then, he was tearing up, and that made Keith angry. “Stop that. Stop crying.”

“Sorry,” Shiro said, but he didn't bother to wipe his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I was run over by an astrocraft,” Keith mumbled, and that made Shiro chuckle, too. “Stop laughing.”

Shiro didn't apologize for that one. “Do you know where you are?” he asked instead.

“Heaven? Hell?” Keith's words slurred one over the other. His lips felt hot and dry.

"The Garrison's hospital," Shiro said gravely, no trace of his smile left on his face. "With a 104-degree fever. God, Keith, what were you thinking not coming here right away?"

“Wanted to have breakfast,” he mumbled.

Shiro shook his head disapprovingly. Keith gave him the closest thing to a shrug he managed to do.

“That was irresponsible –“

“You're one to talk.”

"I'm not having this conversation with you right now, not when you're lying knocked out on a hospital bed," Shiro said, tone final.

Neither of them said another word for a while. Keith let his eyelids drop shut, though he didn't fall asleep. He couldn't, not with Shiro right next to him, staring at him.

After a long while of quiet, Shiro said, “Who's Lance?”

Keith's eyes forgot their tiredness and opened all at once, blazing fires. “Where did you hear that name?” he asked, voice raspy and low.

“From you,” Shiro said simply. “You talked about him earlier.”

"It was probably a dream, then," Keith said, closing his eyes once again. He didn't remember talking about Lance, and he was trying to search his brain for the lost memory, his chest aching with dread of it, for some reason he couldn't understand.

“Keith –“

“Shiro, why are you here?” Keith asked before he could stop himself.

When Keith opened his eyes, Shiro was smiling a sad smile. He took Keith's limp hand into his, and his palm was warm.

“Both of us have unfulfilled promises, Keith,” he said. “It's time I keep mine.”

 

december 10 th , 4:55 p.m.

Keith was let go of the Garrison's hospital wing in the late afternoon. Shiro signed all of the needed paperwork, like it was a thing he was used to, signing things for Keith, not leaving Keith's side, like there wasn't a chasm between them.

Afterwards, Keith let himself be led by Shiro. First, to his room, then, after Shiro stuffed some of Keith's things into a bag, to the Garrison's parking lot, to Shiro's hovercraft.

Shiro put a helmet on him like he was a fourteen-year-old again, like he didn't know how to do it by himself. He clasped it tight on Keith's head, then held its sides in his hands.

“Will you be able to hang on?” he asked.

Keith, who was hazy and weak, but stable under the medication given to him in the Garrison, nodded. “I could drive this thing myself,” he stuttered, giving a poor excuse of a grin.

Shiro rolled his eyes, but didn't object. He sat on his hoverbike, put his own helmet on, brought Keith's arms around his ribcage, then flew them away, away. Keith stopped understanding what was happening, and just accepted it. It was against most of his policy, to just accept things, but his forehead was burning, and Shiro was finally by his side, and that was all a twisted, traitor part of him wanted.

Keith buried his face against Shiro's back, a child clinging, a bird huddling for warmth.

 

December 10 th , 5:08 p.m.

When he walked through the front door, Keith thought how strange it was that Shiro had an actual house nearby, yet chose to live in the Garrison with the rest of the staff. It was almost funny, until Keith looked around.

Shiro's home was different than Keith remembered it. It was more put together, more organized, less chaotic. Keith hated it.

A melody kept playing in his head as Shiro helped him to a vaguely-familiar bed, the only lyrics being, “ _I've been gone from here for too long_ ". Just that, a chant being sung over and over again in his head. Keith thought it might be a real song, then tried his best to recall if it was. It was the last thing he did before falling asleep again.

 

December 10 th , 7:06 p.m.

Keith didn't remember waking up, but there he was, eyelids heavy, Shiro's hand heaving him up against his back.

“You have to eat,” he said.

He placed a tray on Keith's lap. It contained a bowl of soup, a glass of water, and a pill broken into two. The entirety of the contents rattled on top of Keith. He was shaking.

“Keith, you have to eat,” he repeated.

Keith felt hot tears scorch his face. He felt weak, and he hated it. He forced himself to pick the spoon up with a trembling hand and bring it into his mouth. The soup tasted like nothing on his tongue, but he kept scooping some more of it, until he couldn't do it any longer, his hand shaking too much. Shiro kneeled next to him and fed him the rest of the meal, and Keith couldn't recall an instance where he felt more pathetic than that.

Shiro didn't seem to mind. His face became less stern with every spoonful Keith took in, like magic, until the bowl was empty. Then, he made Keith take the split pill, half by half, afraid that Keith would choke on it. Keith wanted to protest, but his throat hurt even when he swallowed the fractions of the medicine along with gulps of the water in the glass.

“I'm going to get you some more water,” Shiro said, taking the tray and disappearing from sight, but Keith didn't stay awake for the next round.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is cheesy af but i wanna thank everyone who has taken the time to comment on my fic, y'all are true heroes and ily so very much!!!!!!


	17. Recoveries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for broganes angst... brogangst??? anyway

Recoveries

 

December 11 th , 7:16 a.m.

The next time Keith woke up, it was the next day.

You couldn't be wrong about that; the window in Shiro's spare bedroom – that was apparently where Keith was – didn't bother to hide the Nevada morning sun. Keith knew that – he had already stayed in that same room before. He used to stay in that room before.

Keith sat up, and his head wasn't spinning, just heavy on his aching neck. He slowly slid out of the covers, and was met with the bag Shiro had packed, lying before him on the floor. Keith picked it up and mounted it on his shoulders, before making his way to Shiro's too-tidy living room.

“Well, I'm fine now, so...” he said, gesturing at the door.

Shiro, who was sitting at the table, was blocking the door in a matter of seconds, plucking the bag from Keith's shoulders and dropping it on the floor without saying a word.

He dragged Keith over to his coffee table, a low wooden plank that he inherited from his parents, and placed him on top of a pile of pillows, as if he weighed nothing. There, another bowl of soup waited for Keith.

“Eat,” Shiro said.

Keith rolled his eyes, but he ate anyway. Shiro drank his coffee right next to him, and though Keith remembered he liked it strong, he couldn't smell it to save his life.

“Your phone's been buzzing non-stop,” Shiro said in between sips.

Keith looked around for it, but didn't see it anywhere.

“You'll get it when you're better,” Shiro added.

“I _am_ better,” Keith insisted, his raspy voice sounding broken, as though just to prove him wrong.

“You'll get it when you're better,” Shiro repeated. “For now, I can give you this.”

He placed a small box on the table, and it took Keith a moment to figure out where he knew it from. It was the gift Shiro meant to give him on his birthday. The gift that Keith rejected.

After seeing Keith wasn't going to reach over to open the box himself, Shiro opened it for him, placing the box over its lid and pushing it towards Keith.

The gift was a watch. It was black and elegant, and it was set inside a foam wrapping. It was beautiful, and Keith was sure he would have appreciated it much more had he opened it on his birthday, and not just now, under the heavy indifference of sickness.

“It's still too much,” Keith found himself saying.

“Keith...”

“I mean it.” Keith covered the box with its lid and pushed it back to Shiro with the tip of his finger. “I can't have this.”

“I just gave it to you,” Shiro protested.

“That's why I can't have it!” Keith exclaimed, voice breaking and sending him into a fit of coughing.

After that, he ate his soup quietly. Shiro didn't drink any more of his coffee. Neither of them spoke for a while.

Then, Shiro said, voice so quiet it sounded like a prayer, “I'm sorry, Keith.”

“Stop,” Keith said, lifting a shaking hand up at Shiro. “Just stop.”

“I'm sorry,” he repeated, now surely. “I am. I'm sorry I left. It – it looked like the right thing to do.”

“Well, it wasn't!” Keith said, placing a hand on his throat as if that would prevent the coughing from coming. When it came anyway, he didn't care all that much. “It wasn't the right thing! You fucked up!”

"You think I don't know that?" Shiro said, voice just as loud. His expression was pure agony. "You think I don't think about it every day, how I pushed my own brother away because I was stupid? I do! It's everything I think about! God – when I found you on that hospital bed, I didn't know what I would do if –"

“Like you would know if I was!” Keith said, tears pouring down his face like boiling water, as hot as Shiro's soup. “How could you do that? How could you leave me?”

He was now full-on crying. Shiro came around the table to hold him, but Keith pushed him away.

“You don't get to do that,” Keith said, bitter. “You don't get to waltz in and out of my life whenever you feel like it.”

“I'm not asking for that.” Shiro sounded close to tears now, too. ”I want in, forever. No out, not anymore. Please.”

Keith shook his head, covering his eyes with his cold fingers. “Why did you leave? Why?”

That time, when Shiro wrapped his arms around him, Keith didn't fight it. He didn't want to.

“I thought you were better off without me,” Shiro said, and Keith felt his chest vibrate at the sound of his voice. “I thought I was holding you back. All your life people kept holding you back, and I didn't want to be one of them. I thought... I don't know what I thought. Whatever it was, I was wrong. I know that now. I know I ended up doing exactly what I wanted to spare you. And... I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm just asking you to let me back into your life, please. Let me try again.”

Keith, albeit reluctant, didn't leave his arms. That was enough of a response for the both of them.

 

December 11 th , 8:00 p.m.

That night, Shiro brought all of Keith's heavy blankets over to his sofa, and let him pick between two old movies Keith vaguely recalled the name of. When he did, they sat back, Keith on one end of the couch, and Shiro on the other.

Keith, like always, didn't understand the film's plot. Shiro, like always, explained all of the plot to him. They didn't huddle together, but, like always, they shared the blanket.

Like always, like familiar arms to fall back into. Warm, welcoming.

It was a time of recovery for Keith, for the both of them.

 


	18. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *prays my jewish ass gets the christmas vibe right*

Christmas

 

December 17 th , 7:25 p.m.

Keith spent the next few days getting back on his feet. The road to getting better was slow, but Shiro forced him to be persistent, giving him bowl after bowl of soup, bringing him gallons of water to drink, and forcing him to rest for 12 hours every day, to the point that Keith was exhausted of sleeping.

Once Keith had finally shaken off the fever symptoms, Shiro let him have his cellphone back. When Keith finally had it in his hands, it felt useless, and he found himself placing it aside, despite having fought for it throughout all of his illness, in favor of giving Shiro's weird, old movie about a kid and his alien friend his full attention.

It was actually a pretty nice movie, but it was even nicer to lean on Shiro when he watched it. Keith wasn't sure when that happened, when his body forgave Shiro and decided that he was too-good of a pillow to stay away from. But it did, at some point, and he was glad, even if his mind didn't forgive Shiro completely yet. Either way, it was good to have him back for Keith to lean on, in more ways than one.

Like getting better from a sickness, forgiveness was a process.

 

December 17 th , 8:12 p.m.

When the movie had ended, Keith remained next to Shiro, staring at their reflection on the black screen. Keith looked like a child, cuddled against Shiro's arm. Shiro's reflection looked at him nervously.

“What?” Keith asked suspiciously, not looking back.

“I'm going to ask you something,” Shiro said. “And you don't have to answer, but I'll ask anyway.”

Keith watched as his image straightened up on the screen. “Okay...”

“A few weeks back you asked me about the tuitions for junior year,” he said. “You told me there was someone you knew –“

“Yes,” Keith confirmed, cutting him off.

Shiro was quiet for so long, that Keith had almost believed he dropped the subject. Almost.

"Are they one of the people you hang out with at lunch break?" Shiro continued hesitantly.

“It's kind of creepy that you watch me, you know,” Keith said, and Shiro rolled his eyes, and so he sighed in defeat. “Yeah, he is.”

"Is it Lance? The Lance you talked about?" Shiro asked, and he looked like he was pulling a band-aid off.

Keith, in turn, felt like he was the one getting a band-aid ripped off of him. It felt a little gritting, to hear Shiro talk about Lance, for some reason, like mixing water and oil. He bit his inner lip, shifting his jaw firmly. "I still can't remember that, but yes," he answered reluctantly.

Shiro nodded, then went quiet for another moment. Keith didn't buy the silence again, knowing it wasn't the end of that conversation.

“Keith,” Shiro said, his voice much more serious. He straightened up, and turned his body so he was looking right at Keith.

“Yeah?” Keith asked, his turn to be the hesitant one.

“You know...” he said, then his voice trailed off as he was considering his words. “You know you can talk to me about anything. Tell me anything.”

Keith lifted a single brow. “What?”

“What?” Shiro responded immediately, then shook his head. “Just, I know I couldn't help much with the scholarship thing. But if there's anything else you wanna talk about, just know that I'm here. Always, okay?”

Keith didn't understand where that statement had come from, nor what Shiro's serious yet unreadable expression had meant, but he nodded anyway.

“Sure,” he said, and it sounded more like a question than an answer.

Shiro smiled, a quite awkward smile, then he patted Keith's shoulder twice and went to get him more water. He was constantly getting him water. Keith figured, that like the water thing, his cryptic questions were also a sign that he cared, even if he didn't understand the point of either.

 

December 20 th , 8:17 a.m.

A few days later, Keith woke up to a fully decorated house. There were stockings hanging loosely off of a wall in the living room, the dining table was wearing an eye-straining tablecloth in red and green, and there was a trail of Christmas lights surrounding all of the walls and leading to Shiro's old, tiny plastic Christmas tree, which was decorated with puffy strings of tinsel to the point the brittle green branches couldn't be seen.

The tree was standing by the door, and Shiro was standing proudly next to it, wearing a Santa hat.

“Figured it was about time,” Shiro said, smiling and gesturing around with his open arms. “Well? How is it?”

Keith had about a hundred different answers to that, and the one he responded with managed to surprise even him when he suddenly ran up to Shiro, and squeezed him into a hug.

“You look like an idiot with that hat,” he said, words muffled into Shiro's coarse sweater.

Shiro hugged back. “I know,” he said, and Keith could hear the smile in his voice without looking up. “Merry Christmas, Keith.”

And it was, a merry Christmas. It really was.

 

December 24 th , 6:19 p.m.

On Christmas eve, it rained. Not that it mattered; Shiro was a man of tradition – that tradition being watching _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ while drinking hot cocoa. So that was what they did.

While it was pouring rain outside, Shiro was pouring them hot cocoa into mugs, and it felt refreshing for Keith to drink something that wasn't soup or water, for a change.

They had also made chocolate-chip cookies for the occasion, though Shiro did most of the job. Keith mostly read the recipe off of the notes on Shiro's cellphone, mixed things, and made sure to check the time every once in a while to make sure the cookies weren't burning.

They still ended up getting burnt, though, neither Keith or Shiro being mindful of the clock while watching _Peanuts_. Nevertheless, the cookies tasted like home, and they both ended up finishing the whole tray.

Halfway through the episode, Shiro placed his birthday gift for Keith at the center of his coffee table.

“Last chance,” he said, but he was smiling. Only Keith could make his birthday gift also his Christmas gift when they were two months apart.

Reluctantly, Keith snatched the box from the table, and cuffed the black watch it contained around his left wrist.

“I didn't get you anything,” Keith said.

“You got me a nice Christmas with you,” Shiro said, smiling. “I couldn't have asked for more than that.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “When did you become so cheesy?”

“Really? You wanna start this on Christmas of all nights?” Shiro said with his brow raised high, then they playfully pushed each other, until they dropped one of the mugs over on the table, and made a puddle of hot cocoa, tiny marshmallows floating on it like boats, which they both teamed up to clean.

At last, the Peanuts Gang had begun humming _Hark! The Herald Angels Sing_ around Charlie Brown's Christmas tree, the end of the TV special.

Keith closed his eyes, listening to the music. Shiro and he felt now like a healing wound, too, like spring after a long winter, and he wondered how many of those he had, stashed inside of him. It didn't matter, not at the moment, when he had gained his brother back.

He wasn't alone for Christmas. No – he wasn't alone at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coughshiroknowscough


	19. Reassembly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so bad at keeping a proper upload schedule rip sdjlfgsjdg anyway here's another chapter with way too much meta

Reassembly

 

January 2 nd , 11:17 a.m.

After holiday season was over, Shiro drove Keith back to Galaxy Garrison, bags tied tight to his hovercraft, and helped him unpack in his small room at the far end of the barracks.

“Right now I've got a staff meeting,” he said, tone apologetic, after they were done folding all of Keith's clothes back. “But I can come by later for dinner? Maybe watch a movie?”

“Sure,” Keith agreed. Right before Shiro went out the door, he hugged Keith, his way of making sure Keith had really meant it.

“You'll be late for your meeting, go!” Keith said, and this time around when he kicked Shiro out, it was with a smile and the wave of his hand.

His dorm was much colder than the bedroom in Shiro's home, and Keith decided to counteract the cold by taking a long, warm shower, taking advantage of the fact that practically no one else in the Garrison was there to turn the tap to hot.

The pipes whistled when Keith demanded hot water, but at last they surrendered, and when Keith left the bathroom, he felt refreshed, like he could handle anything the second term would throw at him, a thought he knew he was bound to regret.

He thought he'd spend the day doing nothing by himself, until two knocks disturbed his much-anticipated plans. He expected to see Shiro, coming to claim something he might have forgotten, but Keith was met with none other than Katie Holt on the other side of the door.

She let out a short screech, then hugged him, and then let go, all in the span of seconds, before Keith could even react.

“Pidge,” Keith mumbled, his surprise notable in his voice.

She punched his shoulder lightly. “How dare you disappear like that? We thought you died! Well, Hunk thought you were kidnapped by aliens, but still!”

“I was sick,” Keith explained. “I'm fine now. Where _is_ Hunk?”

“He'll be coming later today,” she said. “Come on, I'm starving, and the lunch ladies put in extra effort when there's not many mouths to feed!”

All the way to the cafeteria, Pidge rambled on and on about her holiday adventures – how she and her brother Matt fought constantly, how they all played Secret Santa but found out about who was their Secret Santa before Christmas Day, about how she found Matt's old textbook and copied all of his answers to her own – and Keith smiled throughout it all, only realizing how much he had missed her company.

Eventually, they both stopped talking, devouring the food the Garrison's lunch ladies generously put on their trays.

After a while, Keith asked, “Do you know when Lance is coming back?”

At that, Pidge's brow furrowed, her expression unreadable.

“He said he should be back by noon. Though I guess he's big enough of an idiot to miss the first day of the second term,” she said, sounding casual as ever, to the point Keith thought he might have misread her expression completely.

Keith half-shrugged, and the conversation suddenly felt heavy, like he should have tried harder to make his shrug more casual, as if they were talking about classified information that anyone in a radius of a mile couldn't know about.

“That a new watch I see?” Pidge asked eventually, ridding the air of the stale feeling, nodding at Keith's wrist.

“It was a Christmas gift,” Keith said, smoothing his thumb over the black watch, feeling like he could suddenly relate to Pidge's stories about her holiday adventures with Matt. “A gift from my brother.”

Just like gifts, he knew, brothers should be cherished.

 

january 2 nd , 1:05 p.m.

Second after Pidge, it was Lance who came back.

Both Pidge and Keith waited for him outside the Garrison grounds, until finally a cab hovered over, and Lance came out of it, not wasting a moment before tearing towards them and hugging them, his head tight in between both of their shoulders.

Keith helped him take his luggage out of the taxi's trunk, right before he paid the driver and let him drive away. Then, Lance stood square next to his ridiculous amount of bags and suitcases, studying Pidge and Keith's faces, as if he hadn't seen them for years.

He launched at Pidge first, wrapping his arm around her neck and ruffling her hair with his free hand. “You grew taller, you little gremlin!”

“I hate you,” she said as she pushed him off of her. Then, “It's good to have you back.”

Lance smiled at that, then went over to Keith. Keith dreaded getting that same treatment, but Lance just hugged him again, so tight that if he wanted to he could sweep Keith right off his feet. Keith hugged back, he hugged back hard and urgent, and even though it had been nothing but a few weeks since he had seen Lance – it was too much time away, too much time without seeing his amber skin, his summer-sky eyes, his cocky grin.

“I've got so much to tell you,” Lance said, though he said it so low, Keith could only assume it was meant for his ears only.

“Me, too,” Keith mumbled onto Lance's jacket.

The hug felt fresh, like the bloom of a flower Keith didn't comprehend, didn't know was growing inside of him at all. It made his whole body ache to keep Lance in his arms forever, but despite of that, Lance pulled away, and then Keith pulled away, and then they were standing there, looking at each other.

“It's good to know you weren't kidnapped by aliens,” Lance said.

“It is good,” Keith confirmed, then they laughed, and their breaths created clouds of white steam before them.

“We should probably get inside,” Pidge said then. “Also, the dorm is kind of a mess right now, but we might not be able to fix it without Hunk.”

“Are you kidding?” Lance said. “I'm not even willing to _try_ fixing it without Hunk.”

 

january 2 nd , 2:14 p.m.

Later that day, Pidge decided it was best to begin unpacking, while Lance went for the ignore-it-until-you-can't-anymore strategy, leaving his suitcases untouched in his dorm. Instead, he held up his orange-white uniform in his hands and knocked on Keith's door, waving his laundry like a flag.

“Wash 'n Go and Quinn?” he asked.

“Wash 'n Go and Quinn.”

And they did exactly that, shoving their clothes into the empty washing machines of the laundromat, and catching a bus to Quinn. Lance was staring at Keith throughout the entirety of the ride.

“What?” Keith asked finally, but he couldn't sound serious, not when Lance was by his side, after what felt like maybe years. It was a presence he had longed for for far too long.

“Nothing,” Lance said, a smile on his lips. “You look different.”

“I was sick. Maybe that's it,” Keith said casually.

Lance laughed at that, his musical laugh that Keith had gone far too long without hearing. When they had to leave the bus, stepping off at Quinn's station, Lance continued from where he left off. “No, it's something else,” he said, still studying Keith.

Keith shrugged, but as they kept on walking into the familiar shopping center, he said, “I took your advice. I... talked to Shiro.”

Lance snapped his fingers. “That's it.” the smile on his face was warmth and honey. Keith noticed he looked tanner, his skin darker and glowing, and more collected, at ease.

“There's no way you could tell that just by looking,” Keith protested, and it was hard to keep his frown when Lance's smile was so contagious.

“I'll have you know that I'm an excellent judge of character,” Lance's voice was as cocky as his demeanor, both of his hands placed on his hips over his jacket.

It was a silly comment made by a silly boy, but it made Keith want to slide his arms beneath Lance's and hug him.

“Well?” Lance said, eyebrows raised in question. “How? When? Tell me all of it!”

Keith sighed, looking at his feet dragging on the ground for a moment before he spoke. “I was kind of brought into the Garrison's hospital, fevered out of my mind,” he said, quiet. “When I woke up, Shiro was there. He took me to his home. He apologized, and we spent Christmas together. It was actually... pretty nice.”

Lance's eyes crinkled in their corners, forming fractals of stars and snowflakes on his rich, brown skin. His smile was now small, but meaningful. “I'm really happy for you, Keith.”

“No one should have to spend Christmas alone,” Keith said in response, earning Lance's arm around his neck.

They conquered the Quinn arcade for a while, having three different air hockey games (two of which Keith won), then went through all of the arcade's other game machines, and though it was a pointless waste of time, it felt like a breath of fresh air for Keith to finally get to fool around with Lance. Behind the air hockey table, or in front of an arcade machine, Keith felt free. With Lance he felt free.

Lance greeted the bored cashier a happy new year, then they left the arcade, walking aimlessly around Quinn.

“You didn't tell me what your Christmas break was like,” Keith said when they began circling the shopping center for the third time. “You said you had so much to tell me.”

“Oh, it was great!” Lance said, following that with a detailed description of how his nephews loved their presents, and how he met a bunch of his relatives, some he didn't even know. When he said that, Keith looked down at the black watch on his wrist, deflecting the arcade's neon lights in an array of watercolored lights, but he could never ask for more than it.

Throughout it all, Lance was smiling, but somehow, his smile didn't reach his eyes. He didn't elaborate, didn't explain the sudden sadness painted on his face, voice faltering away as they stopped next to Quinn's welcome sign in wait for the upcoming bus.

That was a pang in Keith's chest, but he didn't ask Lance about it, didn't dare tarnish the goodness of having Lance back. And it was good, really good, too good to ruin. It was more than that – it was _right_.

 

January 3 rd , 7:10 a.m.

Iverson kept his promise.

A chart under the title _Cargo Class_ in the hall had seven additional names written on it hastily with a black marker. Right next to it, a second chart, _Fighter Class_ , had twenty-seven names written on it, seven of which were crossed out.

Andrea Sheinfield was occupying the first place yet again, Keith coming in second after her, then Yulia Polak. A few places after was Lance's name. Both he, and Keith standing next to him, sighed in relief.

“Aw, fourth?” Lance frowned at the list of names after prodding every name before him with his finger.

“These mean nothing,” Keith said, swatting Lance's hand away from the name chart. “We should be glad we made it.”

“I was glad!” Lance protested, counting the names again. “Then I found out I came in fourth!”

Their conversation was cut short by Sheinfield herself cutting a path through the students, taking one glance at the name chart, then smiling victoriously at Keith.

“Losing your touch, Kogane?” she asked, her eyes glinting beyond her brown fringe.

“Stay out of this, Sheinfield,” Keith said, quiet and dangerous.

Andrea shrugged. “I was born into this,” she said, voice decorated as if she was telling a story, a known legend, a legend about herself. “As were you. Only difference being, you seem to be falling away. What would your father think?”

Keith subconsciously stepped forward – he only noticed it when he was met with the back of Lance's hand against his ribcage, like a stop sign, keeping him in check. His fists were clenched, as was his jaw, set tight. Andrea Sheinfield brought the winds of trouble with her wherever she went, and Keith had to try hard to not get swept by its current, Lance being the only barrier to keep him from giving into her taunts.

“Let's go, Keith,” Lance hummed behind his ear.

Keith seized the chance before it was too late, before he would be beyond the point of no return, cursing all of his hard, red thoughts out at Andrea Sheinfield as soon as they appeared in his mind. Lance grabbed him by the arm, maybe as support – maybe to ensure Keith wouldn't run back and pick a fight with Andrea.

His grip proved to do both when she called, “like I said!” her voice echoey behind them. “Falling away!”

Keith felt like he was fuming all the way to the cafeteria table.

“What were you thinking? A fight with Andrea in the halls? Elementary school all over again?” Lance scolded as they dropped to the table, arms crossed.

“You heard what she said!” Keith protested, crossing his arms now, too. “Besides, we've been through this – she's a cartoon villain. She won't stop at anything to get what she wants, and we already managed to piss her off.”

“She wants to get the better of you!” Lance said, eyebrows furrowed, eyes accusing. “She _wants_ you to blow up. Don't give her the satisfaction. Don't be a hothead.”

“Like that's something I can control,” Keith muttered.

“It is,” Lance said, dropping back in his seat. “I do it all the time.”

“Well, then I'm not like you,” Keith said, turning his gaze away to his hands, curled to fists under the cafeteria table.

Lance stared at him for a moment, shaking his head. “It's not worth it.”

 

January 3 rd , 9:10 a.m.

Up until Iverson's class Keith kept apart from Lance, not speaking, making a point of not making eye contact. Lance was returning the favor, of course – when he finished eating he left the table without a word for Keith, forcing him to run to catch up with him through the herd of students.

It was a petty argument and Keith knew it, but he sank in it, let it sour the air between him and Lance, neither of them willing to back down in a wordless compromise. Keith would have kept that irritation silent, but Iverson's class ruined his plans.

He was waiting for them with nothing, no craft assignment for once, standing square with his hands behind his back on the gray tarmac. Though that should have provided relief for Keith, it prickled at his skin, worrying – Iverson looked like he had a different torture for them, one that was far worse than folding paper planes of building them into miniature 3D models.

A straight line of uneasy cadets was formed within seconds, but if that did anything to appease Iverson, his blank expression didn't show it. He gestured them to come after him wordlessly, leading them across the tarmac platform, down a flight of smooth stairs hidden by desaturated-green bushes, to a part of the Garrison Keith wasn't familiar with. He stopped in front of a heavy metal door, and with a key clasped to one of his belt loops, he unlocked it with a _cling_ , then swung the door open as if it weighed nothing at all.

The room behind the door was still and dark, until Iverson reached out his hand to flick some light switches, and all at once it was flooded with florescent white light.

It was no room – it was a hall. The Garrison's gym. Iverson came to stand in front of the door.

“All of you are here because you know how to form your own astrocraft and make it function,” he announced, giving them a single, serious nod – Keith imagined it was the closest thing to approval he would ever have to offer. “But real fighter pilots don't fly toy spacecrafts. And you're here to be real fighter pilots, to be _good_ fighter pilots. In order to do so, you'll have to know how to physically handle all the different environments that you might find yourselves in, from great G-forces to foreign grounds of distant astronomical bodies. And for that..."

Iverson moved aside, clearing the entrance and gesturing them all to step inside. They did, their neat line never breaking formation.

“For that, you have to train.” he crossed his arms and looked around at all of them, searching for anyone who looked exceptionally uneasy. “Since this is your junior year, we'll cover nothing but the basics until the next year. By the end of this semester, you'll each be able to handle flying a real jet – which is exactly what you'll be tested on by the end of spring. Prizes await for the very best – and a one-way ticket out of my class for the worst. By now you should know that I keep my promises, so I suggest you take this segment of our course seriously. Any questions?”

He looked through them all again, searching for the tiniest bit of disobedience or insecurity. The Garrison's gym hung in radio silence, only the dust particles floating midair moving in it. Then –

"When do we begin?" it was Andrea who had asked it – expression deadpanned, hands on her hips. Her hair was now tied back into a high, smooth ponytail, and it revealed her pale-olive face in a way that emphasized the sharpness of her cheekbones and chin. She looked familiar, Keith realized, but he didn't realize to whom – a vision too corrupted to revoke an old memory lying in the back of his head. That was how she appeared – corrupted, like a glitch, like a ghost. She was a beast in girl clothing.

Iverson examined her for a moment, and Keith knew it was a collective suspense to hear what he had to say. Then he shifted in his stance. "Since you're so eager to start, Sheinfield, you can demonstrate. If – of course – you're alright with that," he said, but by his flat expression it was clear that his ask for approval was entirely rhetorical.

When he saw Sheinfield wasn't backing down, back still straight and bony knuckles remaining curled on her waist, he continued. "Your mission for the day is a simple obstacle course. You will run up to the monkey bars" – he pointed at a long line of metal bars extended from the right wall of the gym, tracing it until its far end – "Then, you'll swing yourself across to the stage, where you will crawl under the net of ropes" – he kept tracing his fingers through the air, following the path of the course to the back of the gym, where the ground was raised into a small stage, fingers steady, like pointing a gun – "And once you're done with that, you will run back, swing yourself over the pommel horse using that momentum” – he pointed at an old, wooden equipment, shaped like three stacked up boxes, then carried his finger back, gesturing at his feet – “And then you will be back here. Oh, and I forgot to mention – you'll be carrying this baton.”

Iverson handed her a washed-out baton with a stiff, mechanical motion, and a small, twisted smile of enjoyment from casting the shadow of his threat over Andrea. She, however, grabbed it at once, knuckles white around it. Then, Iverson turned to the rest of the class and said, “You better watch well. One of you will have to take the baton from Sheinfield once she's back – _if_ she's back.”

Andrea said nothing in response, only tilted her chin further up and moved to stand parallel to Iverson, at the starting point of the course.

The air was still once more, everyone's eyes torn between Andrea Sheinfield and commander Iverson. If Andrea was nervous, she didn't show it. Her expression was blank as she stood still, as still as the air, baton in hand, the slight swing of her ponytail being the only thing telling her apart from a statue in her figure.

“Ready?” Iverson asked, eyes falling on the watch on his wrist, prepared to begin the count.

“Always,” Andrea replied, voice croaky, tone deadly.

A moment passed, then, “Go!”

It was a one-man race. Andrea tore across the Garrison's gym, her shoes squeaking against the floor. She was fast, faster than Keith thought, faster than her thin figure suggested. Soon she got to the first checkpoint – the monkey rails. For that, she placed the baton between her teeth, gaining mutters and gasps as a response from the crowd of cadets, Lance among them. Keith just kept watching in silence, on edge.

Andrea leaped for the rails, going through each one within less than a second, and finally jumping over to the tiny stage in the back. There, she flung at the net of ropes – barely visible from where Keith was standing – lifting it over her head like lifting a blanket, and sliding under it.

The baton was back in her hand as she squirmed and crawled her way through the stage, finally managing to escape from the other side of the rope blanket, like a fish escaping a net. That had earned her some claps, a new set of gasps, and a renewed stir of whispers among the group of students.

Andrea Sheinfield launched herself off the stage, running with her fingers cutting the air with one hand and the baton in the other, her free hand rising slowly, slowly – then pressing hard on the pommel horse, heaving herself over in a smooth jump.

When she began making her way back towards the rest of the class, Iverson spoke. “Someone should be ready to take the baton when she's back,” he said, warning in his voice. “Unless you all want to fail collectively.”

Andrea was drifting close, her bangs blown upwards by the speed, her face pale and shiny. Keith didn't know when he stepped up to the front of the class, but he did, extending his hand to Sheinfield, legs aching in tense wait.

“I'll go,” Keith said, voice low and hoarse.

Andrea leaped, an antelope running free, and slapped the baton onto Keith's open palm. Keith tore across the gym, following the same course, running as fast as his legs allowed him. He hooked the baton through two of his belt loops, then made a jump for the monkey rails, clinging onto every other level, until he finally swung on stage. It was fitting, as he was feeling on stage, too – the students' eyes lying on him was like a second baton he had to carry, and that was no easy mission.

Keith noticed – blurrily, in the back of his mind – Lance's eyes clinging to him, too, from the front of the gym, just as he was grabbing the baton back in his hand and crawled beneath the net of ropes. Its weight took a toll on Keith, as well as the excessive friction between his stomach and the floor, his skin screeching like a halting tire, only Keith didn't stop. He slid out of the net, then tucked the baton in his belt again, before using both of his hands to jump over the fence of the pommel horse. The landing from it was shaky, Keith hitting the ground with the wrong part of his foot, but he never let it slow him down, still shooting forward, baton ready in his hand to pass forward.

Yulia Polak, the foreign tall girl, was standing ready, bouncing from leg to leg, secure in her position, when Keith gave her the baton, running past her in a slowing rate, breath hitched and heart a drum in his chest.

Finally, Keith crashed on the floor, falling to his knees. A group of cadets was there within seconds, cheering him while Keith caught his breath. Lance remained away, but he was looking at Keith all the same, with question.

Keith only nodded in response, even though he wasn't sure what he was nodding for. Even if he wanted to answer verbally, he couldn't, his lungs still struggling to take air in. He was in pretty good shape, but the course Iverson had planned was nothing simple. Keith was seeing throbbing blotches of orange in his vision.

Some other students came to surround Keith, asking for guidance, but Keith's mind seemed to have floated away while he was running, making everything he saw or heard or took in a gray blob impossible to understand. The only thing he did manage to take notice of was Andrea Sheinfield, standing in the corner of the gym with her arms crossed and an insidious smile carved on her face.

If only Keith's mind could work – maybe he would finally understand the reason behind that smile.

 

january 3 rd , 3:17 p.m.

Keith didn't go back to talking to Lance, still. Occasionally they would catch each other's eyes, then turn away just as fast. It was an all new level of petty for Keith, but he didn't break the silence. After Mr. Harris' class, Lance didn't ask Keith if he was coming with him to Quinn, and Keith didn't offer to come, stalling by shoving his textbook and binder in excruciatingly slow. Lance left without saying goodbye, and Keith went to the cafeteria after school hours, a rare occurrence.

“If you ask me,” Pidge said when Keith sat down, chewing her food, legs prompt on top of the whole bench of their usual cafeteria table in front of Keith and Hunk who was sitting next to him. “You're being two little asses.”

“I didn't ask you,” Keith reminded her. “You just don't get it – you don't have someone like Sheinfield in your class."

“You think pilots are the only competitive people in this school?” Pidge scoffed, crossing her legs. “I'll have you know that people who code have one heck of a competitive spirit.”

"Yeah," Hunk agreed with a nod, taking a loud slurp from an empty juice box. "Engineering students are really competitive, too. Just today two guys fought over who would wipe the whiteboard! It was wild."

“Andrea isn't just _competitive_ ,” Keith said, shaking his head. “She's relentless. She hates Lance's guts, and he wants to play peacemaker with her; You can't tell me it's not the dumbest thing you've ever heard.”

“Not as dumb as you right now,” Pidge said, sighing and pushing her glasses up on her nose. “Listen – if this Andrea is as bad as you say, then this pointless quarrel between you and Lance is even dumber than I thought! It plays right into her interests – you've basically painted a target over your faces.”

Keith opened his mouth to answer, but no words seemed to have made their way out. Pidge looked smug at her deduction, while Hunk looked concerned. Keith closed his mouth, jaw setting hard. He knew Pidge had a point, knew Hunk's concern was well deserved, but he didn't want to give them the satisfaction of proving them right, so he just got up, mounted his backpack on, and left the table with no comment to his friends' annoyed protests.

It was stupid, just as stupid as his argument with Lance was, but if Keith was going to be stupid, he was going to be stupid all the way.

 

January 3 rd , 3:21 p.m.

Instead of going straight to the barracks, Keith took a detour in the depths of Galaxy Garrison, taking all the opposite turns and walking through hallways he had never been in.

The strange pathway to the Garrison's bush-cloaked gym made Keith realize that even though he had been living there for three years, he didn't know the place all that well at all. That made him want to explore the building and its undiscovered corridors – but once he was actually walking in them, it felt pointless, and Keith was bored out of his mind.

Keith didn't want to be walking in those halls – he wanted to be walking through Quinn's small streets, through the shopping center and to the Pizza Galaxy square, under a sheet of teal stars. It was weird how much he missed that place now that he wasn't there, now that he had broken the habit of studying with Lance during his breaks from work, rollerskates resting against the high chairs, and textbooks prompt on a planet-tattooed table. The Garrison's halls were a bad substitute for Quinn.

At some point during Keith's walk to nowhere, he noticed a big display cabinet standing against one of the walls. It was wooden and rusty, and its glossy polish was dimmed and gone at places, but it was nevertheless impressive – because of what it held.

Behind the glass doors, there were shelves with different framed pictures and names – big names, names that clicked in Keith's brain once he read them. The cabinet was displaying the greatest pilots harbored by Galaxy Garrison, holding their images, items, names, and trophies with the pride of a parent.

Keith had heard the names of all of them, but some names rang more familiar than others; Shiro's, for starters – his picture framed in a shiny black frame, taken before one of his missions, before he had become Keith's caretaker. He looked young – almost too young to be flying a jet – and he was smiling, his eyes appearing upturned, fresh. Keith took pride in that smile, for some reason. He hadn't forgiven Shiro for the abrupt break of their relationship, but he knew he wasn't mad at him any longer. He wanted his picture to be in that cabinet, next to Shiro's, and he wanted Shiro to stand next to him while the photo was taken, smiling that same smile. That would be the biggest honor Keith could ask for from the Garrison.

Above Shiro's shelf, was the shelf of Keith's father. He knew by his name and not by his pictures – those images of him were like desert mirages for Keith, too good, unreal. Keith remembered seeing some those images vaguely before, but not all of them. He was smiling in some of the pictures, too, but unlike Shiro's smile, his was a serious one, ever formal. Keith traced his image, his silhouette through the glass, as if trying to pull forth a memory that wasn't there. Then, he went over the shape of his badges; and then, over his name – letter by letter.

C-Y-R-U-S. Cyrus Kogane. His late father, his late fighter pilot father, Cyrus Kogane. A name that used to be a curse word, like an avoided plague, now was nothing but an old memory under Keith's pointer finger, over the cold glass of the cabinet. Keith noticed the shadow of a smile growing on his lips in the faint reflection, and he let his hand drop, taking a step back.

Above his father's shelf, at the highest level, was the pilot with the most trophies. A soft smile on an ambitious round face, the woman in the framed picture looked like she was really there, smiling behind the cabinet doors, like she had placed her prizes and trophies there herself. Before that picture, a silver plaque with her name carved on it in thin letters – _Michaela Martinez_.

Keith knew who she was, of course – Michaela Martinez wasn't an obscure name of some unknown person. She was one of the best pilots in his father's era, maybe the very best. She had gone on countless missions, and won a significant amount of awards, awards that made every aspiring fighter pilot's stomach flip only at their mention, awards that stood proudly on her shelf – it was no wonder why she was placed on top.

She quit flying after Keith's father, and when she was offered a position in Galaxy Garrison as an instructor, she rejected it in favor of devoting herself to family life, a decision nearly everybody in the Garrison, during lunchtime or while complying to Iverson's ridiculous assignments, had something to say about in pointless daydreams of what it would be like to have Iverson's cruelty replaced with Michaela Martinez's brilliance – though no one really knew her to know if that hypothetical situation would be better or worse. All they knew about her was the tales behind the legendary pilot.

Keith didn't know much more about her, except he remembered her as one of the people telling him how sorry they were in his father's funeral, and even that he couldn't recall very clearly. In truth, she was one of the mysteries Galaxy Garrison held, and people liked to talk about that, too, theorizing conspiracies on her refusing the Garrison's job offer or her quitting astro-exploring. Keith didn't think there was a deep reason behind it all. Fitting to his father's shelf beneath Michaela's, he knew someone's life really could turn around drastically.

Keith left that hallway, some unnamed feeling spreading in his chest, something he couldn't label something other than looking forward to the rest of his life.

It was both exhilarating and terrifying.

 

January 3 rd , 3:34 p.m.

The next stop on Keith's trip was one that he was familiar with – the satellite observation room. Keith didn't mean to end up there, but he was glad that was where his feet had carried him.

The room was small and dark, the only light was provided by a line of big screens in its front, some showing the course of some moon Keith didn't recognize around what appeared to be Saturn, a dashed line, some showing a real map of stars, captured by a real telescope, with a big red circle framing a tiny dot in the night sky.

Astronomy, a sophomore class – Keith knew that because he took it when he was a sophomore – and, because the one hosting the class, talking with a child-like excitement as he was pointing at one of the screens to a class of aspiring teenagers, was Shiro.

Keith remained there, observant, quiet. He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed and just listened to Shiro's lecture. The moon on screen turned out to be Mimas, one of Saturn's moons. Shiro talked about it as if he had been there himself – about how it was the closest moon to Saturn, and _how amazing_ it was that its speed was determined by orbital resonance between two of Saturn's other moons, Enceladus and Dione. He talked about it in a way that made Keith like astronomy class in all the ways he didn't in the previous year. Shiro could make anything sound fascinating.

He was just explaining the history on Mimas' discovery when he noticed Keith by the door, pausing his lecture and managing to turn all the students' gaze to him.

“Sorry,” Keith mumbled, but he didn't feel sorry enough to drop the smile on his face or leave the observation room.

“Well, since you're already here,” Shiro said, brow raised at Keith and mimicking his stance. “You're welcome to take a seat. I always said Galaxy Garrison should make astronomy an all-years class.”

Keith rolled his eyes, and that drew some laughs from the sophomores. To Keith, they looked younger than him, much younger, didn't even look their age. He wondered if any senior looked at him and the junior fighter class and thought the same. He could see them comparing him to Shiro in their eyes between laughter, and for once, it didn't bother him.

Keith wondered why that was, but it was more of an answer than a question. If he were faced with the same reality when he was still at odds with Shiro, he wouldn't know what to make of it. Now, Keith knew. Shiro was their instructor, their teacher, their mental coach on their journey to becoming pilots.

But he wasn't their brother. They would never roll their eyes at him, and he would never sass at them. It was so clear, Keith thought he was insane for ever feeling like that. That meant – the realization was somehow sudden and unexpected to Keith – that Shiro, the remarkable pilot, the one that loved babbling on about different planets and their moons, really was his brother. Keith liked that. It made him feel secure, collected, reassembled, like a puzzle that was soon to be completed.

"No, thank you," Keith said, and stayed in the satellite room just long enough to see Shiro sigh and shake his head disapprovingly.

 

January 3 rd , 4:51 p.m.

Keith walked around the empty vastness of the Garrison's gut for a while, going nowhere and everywhere. He passed by Mr. Harris' class twice, by the cafeteria three times, and by what he could have sworn was the same hall five times. At last, he followed the path Iverson took the class in that morning, behind the dry green bushes, down smooth stairs, until he was faced with the Garrison's gym.

Surprisingly, its heavy door was left ajar, the cool desert air accepting the huffs of plastic-gym smell the place was radiating. Keith slid in through the opening, expecting to find nobody in – or perhaps Iverson, or Andrea Sheinfield, trying to perfect her time doing that day's obstacle course – but instead of that, Keith found a familiar tall figure dangling off of the monkey bars, wearing a baby blue uniform that was riding up to reveal tan brown skin.

Lance was kicking his feet in the air as he was swinging, then groaned in frustration when his hands slipped and he fell back to the ground in a crouch.

“I thought you were working today,” Keith found himself saying, his words echoing in the spaceness of the gym.

Lance got up, standing straight and brushing the dust off his knees, then turned to Keith with his lips pursed and his jaw set. “I was working,” he said. “I got off early. Thought I'd try this course again.”

Keith tried to remember how Lance did earlier that day; it wasn't exceptionally bad or exceptionally good – he was a fast runner – maybe the fastest in their class, and he was an excellent jumper, gracefully leaping over the pommel horse – but he spent half of his time carrying the baton on the monkey rails, struggling to swing forwards.

Lance came to the gym to practice. Under the LED lighting in the gym, his cheeks were pink – maybe from the exercise, maybe from embarrassment.

Before Keith knew it, he was crossing the gym to stand before Lance, his boots squeaking against the rubbery floor. Then, he kneeled next to him, intertwining both of his hands by his fingers, and offering the support of his connected palms as a boost.

“What?” Lance asked, his voice no more than a huff. He looked even more flushed up close, from where Keith was kneeling before him.

“Come on, let me teach you,” Keith said, lifting his linked hands up in offer.

It was oddly vulnerable, and tasting of irony, to be offering support for Lance, especially after they spent the whole day pointedly ignoring each other's presence. Keith felt it, and he was sure Lance did, too – but he took his offer anyway, carefully lifting his knee and placing one of his grey-blue sneakers on Keith's grip. Keith heaved him up, and Lance caught onto the first bar in the rail within the span of seconds. Then, Keith got up to stand beside Lance, fingers lightly curling around his waist. He could feel Lance's ribcage beneath his palms, and where his work uniform revealed slips of his brown skin, he was warm.

“Okay,” Keith said, spreading his fingers, steadying his grip. “The trick is using your shoulders.”

"Gee, thanks," Lance mumbled, but he tried anyway, his legs waving in flutter kicks.

“Using your shoulders,” Keith continued, “and not the rest of your body. If you move with your wrists and your forearms, you'll get tired in no time. Try moving with your shoulders and back – that way you're letting your stronger muscles do the job. Also, stop kicking.”

Lance chuckled, out of breath, swinging slowly from one bar to the other following Keith's instructions. “You saying –“ he said in between pants. “– my muscles are strong?”

Keith rolled his eyes at that, and Lance laughed again. And then he dropped from the monkey rails before him, this time managing to land on his feet.

“Why did you stop?” Keith asked, pulling his hands to his sides at the speed of sound. “You were doing good.”

“It's not the stupid rails, man,” Lance said, hushed, turning to him with eyebrows knitted low, like he was in pain. “Look, I – I'm sorry about this morning, okay? You were right, I should've stood my ground against Sheinfield. But I hate this fighting thing. I don't want to confront Sheinfield, and I don't wanna argue with you.”

Keith took a step back. “No,” he said, shaking his head at the ground. “You were right. All that she wants is to get on our nerves. I shouldn't have been so hotheaded. And – for what it's worth – I don't want to fight with you, either.”

Lance nudged Keith's shoulder with his fist. “It's worth a lot.”

Keith nodded, and Lance laughed again, like it was the funniest thing in the world. He laughed, and he hugged Keith. Keith hugged back, though he was unsure.

Unsure of whether a hug could change the fundamental inner workings of each of them, could alter their ways forever, so that the flames of brashness burning in Keith, and the waves of serenity flooding Lance would be powerless by the hold of each other's arms.

Keith wasn't sure, but right then, it was enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls pls rec this fic if u wanna!!! it would make my day!!!  
> also reminder that i'm @gaykieth on tumblr!! c:


	20. Heat of Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gay build-up gay build-uP gAY BUILD-UP GAY B

Heat of Battle

 

January 14 th , 9:28 a.m.

It wasn't until the middle of January that Iverson let the fighter class know more details about their upcoming plans.

There was chatter about it beforehand, of course – some days prior, Yulia Polak, the blonde Europian girl, shared some of the theories the fighter class seniors had all coined up about Iverson's much-anticipated rewards for the juniors. That was difficult, since apparently he didn't promise the junior class of the previous year any prize, and it only served to make new rumors start circling in bubbles of talk within the fighter class whenever they waited for Iverson on the tarmac, right before he would appear and lead them all to the Garrison's gym for an obstacle course, which became harder and harder yet with every day.

The pattern continued, until one day, instead of leading the students straight to the gym, Iverson stood before them on the tarmac platform, formal.

“The time has come to shed some light on what's to come for you, cadets,” he said, switching his gaze from one end of the road to the other, examining faces like a scientist would examine amoebas under a microscope. “Our training sessions will continue as usual, until I see fit. I recommend you all to remind yourselves where the simulation rooms are and practice in them, because after we're finished with physical training, we will commence flight training, real flight. You see this jet here?” he turned to gesture with his whole arm at a big, khaki-green jet standing still behind him. “Each of you will fly it for the first time by the end of the next month, and perfectly by the end of the month after that. Your Flight Theory notes will play a crucial part in your flight skills, so I suggest reading them thoroughly if you want to be at the top of the charts.

Which brings me to my next point – from now on, the tests you'll be taking for this class will only add to your abundant score. Your last test for the year, the flight test, will happen in March. From then on, as opposed to previous years, you will not be requested to build your teams for senior year. Instead, you will all postpone that until the start of the next year in favor of rehearsing for this year's air show, which you will all be attending as a background formation.”

Talk began bubbling up on the tarmac. Iverson had dropped several bombs at once upon the fighter class, and no one knew how to begin to take them all in.

“Silence,” Iverson commanded, lifting one hand up. “You will all be attending this year's air show,” he continued, “but three of you – the ones on the top three slates in the charts in April – will be part of the main show. Meaning – three of you could get the chance to fly with some of the biggest names in the astro-exploring field today, who – might I add – have all attended Galaxy Garrison. This could open some pretty big doors to a future as fighter pilots – and it could be for any of you, if you persist and work hard enough. Understood?”

There was a moment of delay, the students taking the dangling bait in, before everyone chanted in agreement. Iverson nodded, looking at them all, as if trying to predict himself who was going to be in the top three places on the April charts. It came as no surprise to Keith when his gaze, dark and heavy, settled on Andrea Sheinfield, right before leading them all with a gesture of his arm to the gym, making a path behind a cloud of bushes.

 

January 14 th , 11:13 p.m.

Later that day, Keith joined Lance to the Pizza Galaxy in Quinn, Mr. Harris' notes in hand all the way from the bus to a planet-painted table. On the ride to Quinn, and whenever Lance passed by Keith serving pizzas and drinks, both hands full – Keith would read some passages out loud, and Lance would nod solemnly, taking in every word. On his breaks, he read some passages himself.

If Keith didn't understand something about some complex mechanism, Lance would grab whatever was at bay – a napkin holder, the plastic pizza saver, the oregano shaker on the table – to demonstrate it, and though ridiculous, it ended up being pretty helpful to Keith. Lance knew he was better with his hands than his head, better with actions than with words. He understood Keith, and Keith was grateful for it. He wouldn't have processed half of the Flight Theory notes that he did if it wasn't for Lance.

“How do you do that?” Keith asked him as they were both ripping their third triangle of olive pizza from the box.

“Do what?” Lance asked, words muffled, already chewing his piece.

“You know,” Keith said. “how are you so good at getting things across?”

Lance laughed at that, then said something Keith suspected wasn't real English, still chewing his lunch.

After that, instead of taking their usual route back to the welcome sign at Quinn's edge, they turned the opposite way, Lance bouncing his yo-yo, and Keith softly dragging his feet. Neither of them said anything, but both of them knew where they were headed.

The bored cashier at Quinn's arcade didn't look up at them when they walked in, only waved with his free hand as he was sliding through his cellphone. Keith suspected they would turn to the air hockey table, or maybe conquer all of the game machines one by one by the order Lance desires, but instead, both of them came to stand before a mighty machine in the back of the arcade, a huge game they had never seen before. It was coated with a layer of cherry red paint, aside from its huge screen and its even bigger platform planted solid on the arcade floor. The machine itself, unlike some of the others, didn't flaunt its brand name with a big overhanging sign or a pattern printed on it. Instead, its game title was floating on the screen, crisp and clear and eye-straining – _Dance Dance Revolution_.

“Whoa,” Lance muttered, then shouted past his shoulder, “When did you bring this beauty in?”

“This last weekend,” the cashier said behind them, voice as bored as his expression. “Brought more visitors than I've seen all year. Thank god _that's_ over.”

"Whoa," Lance huffed again, reaching to touch the shiny red shell of the mighty machine as if he was reaching to pet an animal. He stepped up, taking the left side of the platform, and treaded carefully, like he was trying on new shoes. Then, all at once, he turned to Keith. "Keith," he said, urgent, his hands clasped in plea. "We have to play."

Keith scrunched his nose at the machine. “This is a _dance_ machine,” he said. “I'd rather be playing Killbot Phantasm – or better yet, beating you at air hockey.”

Lance shook his praying hands at Keith, looking more desperate by the moment. “Keith, _please_. Please, please, please. We have to!”

Keith arched a cautious brow. “Lance...”

“Please, just once, and I'll never bug you again.”

Keith rubbed his eyes desperately. “Aren't you tired from working? It's pretty late.”

“It's _never_ too late for dancing,” Lance said proudly, punching the machine fondly. “one time only, Keith, please.”

Keith covered his face with his palms. “Please don't make me do this,” he mumbled into them.

“I'll pay the tokens. Come on. Please.” Lance looked at him like Keith alone had the power to save and doom his life.

“I really don't want to.”

“It'll be so much fun!”

Keith held Lance's begging gaze for a moment longer before surrendering to it with a sigh. “ _Fine_. But this never happened.”

“Deal,” Lance agreed, voice two octaves higher, mouth curled into an insane smile. “You'll love it. I know you will.”

“I highly doubt it,” Keith said, stepping up to the platform by Lance's side.

Lance slid a few coins in with some metal _clinks_ , and within a moment the screen changed. It was a menu now, offering an array of different artists and songs and a list of varying degrees of difficulty. Keith assumed Lance was already acquainted with the game machine, because he tapped away at the screen with speed, brow furrowed as he was searching through songs.

“This one,” he said eventually, and the screen changed yet again.

Keith stood square in the middle of his platform, legs feeling heavy as the screen showed two figures in front of them – a blue one for Lance, a red one for Keith.

“The arrows will tell you how to do the basic moves,” Lance said, smoothing his hair back. “But the real style comes from you.”

“Guess it's just the arrows, then,” Keith said, crossing his arms and watching the red figure on screen do the same. “My dancing skills are that of a brick.”

Lance shook his head, his own figure mimicking. “I'm sensing this is a Footloose situation. Hey – this isn't the song I picked!”

They both turned to the screen. There were no arrows guiding them yet, but the beat of the intro to the song was already playing, a melody Keith vaguely recognized from one of the movies Shiro made him watch once.

“Yeah, I should mention the machine is second-hand,” the cashier called behind them, his voice swallowed by the music.

“It's a sign that we shouldn't play,” Keith muttered, staring at the screen with a deep frown. “That movie sucked.”

Lance looked at him, stunned. “Footloose?”

“No,” Keith answered, gesturing with his head at the game machine. “ _That_ one.”

They turned back to the screen just in time for the arrows to start raining in, each of them in their assigned color, to the rhythm of Grease's _You're The One That I Want_.

Lance laughed out loud when the lyrics started coming in, but he did so effortlessly, while still dancing. Keith, on the other hand, struggled to keep up, moving stiffly and uncoordinated with Lance at all times – _down, up, turn, right, right_. It was as if his feet got the memo from his brain in a second's delay – it was ridiculous. Lance was ridiculous, too, though not in the same way – he added his own moves, fluid, careless, a perfect contrast to Keith's awkward stiffness, yet still comical in its own way. They were both ridiculous, but at some point, Keith realized that he _adored_ it.

Better yet; by the time the chorus came in, he embraced it.

“Two arrows,” Keith said, voice breath-taken. “What does that mean?”

“It's a turn,” Lance replied, same softness and breathlessness in his words. “When it comes do a one-eighty jump to me. Ready? Three, two, one –“

_Jump_. Both of them leaped at the same time, and were now face to face, cheeks and neck flushed, lungs breathless. At some point, Keith's feet learned to keep up, and he was now mirroring Lance's moves, muscles moving fast, adrenaline firing through his veins and spreading a familiar warmth in Keith's chest. _Down, up, down, jump, down, turn, up_. “ _You're the one that I want, you are the one I want – you-ooh-ooh, honey._ "

They dominated the _hell_ out of that game machine. It was a foreign land conquered by wild smiles and a great rush, and Keith and Lance were its kings. No, they were more than that – on that platform, they were goddamn _bosses_. When the song ended, laugh poured out of them like spilled ink, their hands clutching onto the metal rails behind them, their chests rising and falling to the rhythm of their laughs and the lack of their breath.

“That,” Lance said in between pants, “was awesome.”

“It was insane from start to finish,” Keith added.

“Like I said.” Lance jumped off of the platform gracefully. “ _Awesome_. You know, for a brick, you have pretty neat dancing skills.”

“Shut up,” Keith muttered, stepping off of the platform as well, though that only prompted Lance to keep talking about Keith's embarrassing dancing, finally quieting down only when he fell asleep in a seat on the bus seat back. _Ridiculous_ , Keith thought.

 

January 15 th , 11:13 A.m.

The next day, Iverson had a different course planned for them.

"In order to be a fighter pilot, you'll have to know physical combat," he said when they were at the gym. "You don't know what's going to strike or when. If you're stranded in an asteroid field without this training, you're done for. If you get into a storm of debris, you're done for. If you can't handle being under high G-forces, you're done for. There are many ways to die in space, and few to survive. This segment is for each of you who wants to return to earth living and breathing – assuming you'll even be able to make it to outer space in the first place.

You'll be split into teams of two, according to the order of names on the charts, which I happen to have here. Each of you will take the person who comes in after you. And get a mat, all of you, before I make you have today's lesson on the floor.”

The crowd all floated in different directions, every student taking a different way, until even Lance gave Keith an apologetic smile, leaving after Yulia Polak, and Keith was left staring at Andrea Sheinfield. She, in turn, was smiling – a smug grin, hands placed firmly on her hips, but her eyes were cold beyond her bangs, prodding Keith.

“Finally,” she said, voice slick. “A one-on-one. Ready, Kogane?”

Keith ignored her question, turning away instead after the flock of cadets pulling washed out mats from a pile in the far corner of the gym. Sheinfield, however, didn't seem to get the message – she paced after him quickly, her shoes squeaky against the rubbery floor, a wasp following his trail, challenge still heavy in her words.

“You scared?” she asked, and Keith tugged at one of the mats, dragging it along to the front of the gym, where Iverson was scanning the crowd judgingly.

“I could go easy on you, you know,” she said behind him. “I won't, of course – but I could.”

Keith dropped the mat before him and straightened its corners out, still avoiding Andrea's dangerous words.

“Actually,” she added, “maybe if you ask nicely –“

Iverson turned to their direction all at once, looking down at them like a hawk. "Well," he announced. "It looks like the leading cadets can't keep their mouths shut. You'll be the ones going first. Let's see if you can use the muscles in your body as well as you can the muscles in your jaws.”

Keith cursed under his breath. The rest of the students all spread out to make a circle around the foremost mat, next to Iverson. Keith spotted Lance in between the students – he was giving Keith the thumbs up, and for some reason that was enough to get him to turn around to face Andrea Sheinfield, standing confidently on the mat with her arms crossed, a cocky smile smeared on her pale face.

Keith hesitated standing in front of Andrea. He stood steady on the ground, knees slightly bent, but he stood still. Andrea, opposite of him, stretched her arms, rolled back her shoulders, and slid her feet into a stable stance, collecting her hands into fists before her face, ready to fight.

"Your mission is to knock each other down," Iverson said, circling the mat like a ravenous animal. "And at the same time, resist being thrown. Space debris is relentless – if you end up getting hit by a body, especially one traveling at high speeds – your chance of survival decreases immediately. You have to know how to navigate within opposing forces. You have to know how to fight."

“Oh, we'll fight,” Andrea muttered.

“No foul play,” Iverson continued. “No brutality. The moment someone falls, you clear the mat out. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Keith's voice along with Andrea's was gritting in the tense air of the gym.

Keith kept his eyes focused forward, on Andrea's feline eyes, on her twisted smile, the only barrier between them being golden dust particles. Then –

“Go!”

Andrea didn't waste a second. She charged at Keith like he was prey, fist first – but Keith dodged it, sliding beneath her arm, switching places. The ring of students surrounding them made a background track of _oooh_ s. She huffed a laugh at that – laughed, then charged again. That time, she placed her body firmly before Keith, leaving him no route for escape, and he resorted to crossing his forearms against her push, one force against another.

“You're not hitting back,” she gritted, quiet, eerie. “Is it because I'm a girl?”

“It's because you're Andrea,” Keith said, just as low, then broke his makeshift shield and leaped to the side, causing Sheinfield to unexpectedly stumble forwards.

She never met the floor, though. Instead, she turned just in time to grab Keith by his forearm and twist, a motion made with such care and speed that when Keith fell kneeling on the mattress, he was convinced she had to have some kind of training to be that precise.

“It's a shame,” she said, still gripping his arm firmly, her fingernails digging into Keith's skin. By that point, the crowd of cadets was going wild with cheers and boos and everything in between, but it was all muffled to Keith's ears.

Andrea twisted just a little bit more, just a little too hard, making Keith's face sour all at once. “I was hoping to crush you,” she whispered, just loud enough so Keith could hear; then she let go of him, now Keith being the one to stumble forwards.

When Iverson held her hand up in victory a short moment later, right before calling Lance and Yulia Polak – the next fight on the list – to the mat, Andrea was smiling. It was a sweet smile, one too innocent for someone like her, and she wasn't smiling it at Iverson, or the crowd of students, or anyone else.

No, she was smiling at Keith, and he felt chilled to the core.

 

january 15 th , 4:19 p.m.

Keith's plans for the rest of his day included nothing but staying in his room, grounded to his desk and his notes. Instead, he ended up on a rocky bus ride to Quinn, Nevada, by what was probably sheer force of habit.

Lance, by his side, had a spot of blue on the top of his right cheekbone, courtesy of Yulia Polak and their previous face-off at the Garrison's gym. Keith didn't stick around to see him get it – he opted to stand under the cold stream of the whistling shower in his room all the way until lunch break, so he had to take Lance's word for it when he told the story over lunch, much to Hunk and Pidge's entertainment.

He had a book sprawled open on his lap now – Keith managed to get a glimpse of its title, _The Human Hummingbird_ , when Lance carried it with him into the bus. Whenever Keith would read a passage, it never spoke of hummingbirds, though.

“It's a philosophy book,” Lance explained when Keith was staring at the book's open pages for a while. “It proposes thinking about beliefs like nectar and about humans like the hummingbirds drinking them. It's about a bunch of other things, too. I got it for Christmas from my mom. But this isn't my usual shade of philosophy. Too hazy. I like my stuff lucid. Hey – maybe you should read it!”

Keith scoffed at that. “I don't think I can read that much philosophy without dropping dead,” he said, but he kept reading.

“You shouldn't feel bad about losing the fight, you know,” he told Keith after a while, as they were making another turn in some deserted road, the screeching wheels of the bus raising a cloud of sand and dust that temporarily covered the window beside their bus seat.

“I don't,” Keith replied.

Lance raised a brow at that, and it stretched the blue mark on his cheek into the shape of a crescent moon. He pressed the book shut.

Keith crossed his arms, sighing. "Fine. I can't fight Sheinfield because it would play into whatever it is she wants, and I can't lose because –" his mouth was suddenly dry of words. "Because then I'm just Shiro's privileged brother," he finished after a beat, quiet.

Lance studied his expression for a moment. “Wanna talk about –?”

“No,” Keith fired.

Lance nodded, leaning back in his seat. Then, he searched his pocket for a second, and placed his yo-yo firmly in Keith's hand. Keith only stared in response.

"What?" Lance said, shrugging. "it's therapeutic. Try it."

Keith continued to stare at Lance for another moment, only the bus' rumble accompanying their silence. Then, he slid his pointer finger into the loop in the string, and yo-yoed.

Keith watched the toy bounce with a blank expression, much to Lance's dismay, then placed it back in his hand wordlessly.

Lance frowned at that. “You can do that,” he said. “Or –“

He pinched the yo-yo string in half, then began sliding the unraveling plastic disks back and forth, before bouncing the strings like reins and making the whole net break back into the long string, and then again back to a tangled system of strings, throwing the clear-blue circle from hand to hand. He kept going, doing weirder tricks every time, until they began failing, the string tying in knots and bundles in Lance's hands, making him frantically chase after the yo-yo with his fingers when it slipped away from the paths of string he stretched for it.

To Keith, that was therapeutic.

 

January 15 th , 7:42 p.m.

At Lance's second break, instead of spending it on stuffing themselves full of pizza and going over their notes under strings of teal stars, Keith got dragged by the wrist across Quinn's center again while Lance took the lead on his rollerskates.

Keith wasn't surprised when they ended up in the arcade, but he was surprised when Lance slid over straight to the dance machine in the far back.

“No,” Keith said, but Lance was already kicking off his skates and stepping onto the platform.

“Absolutely not,” he said when Lance was sliding in some coins into the machine.

“If the yo-yo didn't help you, my friend,” Lance said, tapping the screen of the machine where the title _Dance Dance Revolution_ was bouncing from the ends of the screen, “then this is the only cure.”

Keith stared at him for a moment. In truth, he was dying to use that machine again, and by the lack of begging on Lance's part, it seemed like he knew it.

"My break is short." Lance leaned on the rail behind the platform. "It's just long enough for one song."

Keith paced over to the cherry-red game machine, then nodded seriously. “Better make it a good song, then.”

Lance looked like Keith just handed to him a fund for all his studies and a cheat sheet for every upcoming test. He tapped away at the screen, popping menus and closing them at the speed of sound, and within seconds the screen changed, two vibrant figures in front of them respectively, and a beat of a song playing.

“Still not the song I picked.” Lance frowned.

It was a song neither of them knew this time, with vocals in a foreign language, but they kept up with the flashing arrows anyway, moving in any way they dictated.

“This – is getting – fast,” Lance said, breathless.

“Don't tell me you're quitting now,” Keith answered, brow raised playfully, though his own muscles were beginning to tire, and his temples were wet.

Lance huffed. “That's how you wanna play, huh?”

From then on, it was a full-blown competition. With eyes torn between the arrows on the screen and looking at the other, they danced. Lance was better, of course, but he wasted time on making his motions flowing and fluid, while Keith gave up on an aesthetically-pleasing performance in favor of completing the movements at top speed. Somehow, despite all that, they managed to syncronize, legs moving as one while their hands were clinging to the rail behind.

And then the figures on the screen began dancing together, and that messed their whole coordination up.

Keith jumped to face Lance a fraction of a second before Lance did, but they were both late to the cue. They kept moving, kept following the popping arrows despite their burning muscles, but the screen was still coated with big, red exes everywhere. They exchanged glances, not knowing what was wrong, then –

“Grab my waist,” Lance said.

Keith blinked. “What?”

“The screen,” Lance answered simply. Sure enough, Keith's figure had its hands on the other figure's waist, and Lance's figure had its hands firmly on the other's shoulders.

Keith nodded, and brought his hands to Lance's waist, right before Lance placed his on Keith's shoulders. When they laughed, it was a rather awkward laughter, but they didn't have time to dwell on it. On the screen, Keith's figure spun Lance's in the air in a curled arrow – a switch of positions.

"I'm so sorry," Keith mumbled, then tightened his grip on Lance, and spun in place. When they were on the opposite sides, neither of the figures had its hands on the other anymore, simply mirroring each other's movements, face-to-face.

“Why are you sorry?” Lance laughed, still panting. Some strands of his hair clung to his forehead – others bounced messily with every step he took. “That was sick.”

Keith ignored that, eyes glued to the screen, but his movements began to falter, coming in later than Lance to every arrow on screen, and starting to lose focus, stepping right instead of left twice in a row.

Finally, the music died out as well, their points rising before them in colorful lines of red and blue, and in a last moment of synchronizing, they fell back together against the red metal rails, panting their lungs out, hair matted with sweat.

“Well,” Lance said between breaths, somehow smiling, “I did say we had time for one song. Didn't say we had the energy.”

 

January 15 th , 11:22 p.m.

As it turned out, they didn't have the time for one song – Lance was a few minutes late when he arrived back at Pizza Galaxy, and so he was given the task of cleaning up before closing, a mission only the tardies got, according to him. After most of the other employees left, Keith grabbed a spray bottle and a towel and cleaned the tables, while Lance went inside and took care of tidying the kitchen. Then, Lance finished the final details – registering the tips, wiping the blackboard, brooming the smooth floor – and let his manager, a nice, red-haired guy who appeared to be at his late thirties, close the place down.

It was later than they ever stayed at Lance's workplace, and it felt strange to see the pretty drape of green-blue stars flicker shut above their heads, clearing place for the real stars above, shining fainter and further, so soft they made Keith's heart ache.

“Thanks for the help,” Lance whispered when they snuck back into the Garrison's grounds, way past curfew. His breath was a white puff against the black of night. “I wanna help you now.”

Keith raised a brow at that, but Lance just smiled and raised his pointer finger to his lips, before carefully treading on his tiptoes, across the tarmac, through dark bushes, and to the gym. Keith followed, not daring to protest in fear of getting caught by a wandering staff member – not that he thought Lance would give him any answers if he had asked.

When they finally slipped behind the heavy metal door standing ajar at the front of the gym, Lance gestured with his hands at himself with a _come here_ motion.

“Fight me,” he said.

“What?” Keith took a single step back.

“Come on,” Lance said. “Pretend I'm Sheinfield – _ooh, look, I'm miss perfect! My hobbies include threatening and excelling at everything!_ ” he smiled obnoxiously and raised his voice an octave for the last part.

“What was that even –“

Lance sighed theatrically to cut him off. “Okay, new approach. Don't pretend that I'm Sheinfield. Pretend this is _Dance Dance Revolution_ , only we're not dancing, we're fighting.”

“Lance –“ Keith protested, but then Lance took two steps forward, put one hand on Keith's waist, and grabbed his wrist with the other, so that they were almost in the same position as they were on that game machine, what seemed like years and worlds away for Keith.

Their chests were almost touching. Keith could feel Lance's breath land warm on his cheek. For a bystander, it would seem like a dance, a dance without music, a still dance.

Keith grabbed Lance's wrist back, circled it in the air as if they were really dancing, then pulled, in what he'd hoped resembled Andrea's own winning move from that morning. Except, Keith didn't consider that Lance was still holding on to his waist, his palm radiating warmth on Keith's skin through his shirt, so when Lance did fall to the mat on the rubbery floor, he pulled Keith with him, only failing to bump each other's heads by Keith's hands, steadying him on either side of Lance's face, and one of his feet, managing to catch the friction of the floor with the sole of his shoe and stop him from completely falling over Lance.

They hung there for a second, Lance's eyes wide in surprise, Keith's breath held as he was hovering above him, staring at one another, inches away from a bump of their noses. Then, Lance burst out laughing. And then Keith burst out laughing. And then Keith rolled over by Lance's side, and they were laughing together, watching an overhead florescent lighting swing lightly, courtesy of the gentle breeze filtering through the crack of the door of the gymnasium, laughing and laughing and laughing, until Keith's stomach was aching and the only thing that could come out of him was laughter, painfully sweet.

 


	21. Honesty Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry

Honesty Hour

 

February 8 th , 4:39 p.m.

Hunk and Pidge found out about Lance's part-time job at the beginning of the next month.

“Are you sure?” Keith had asked him that same morning – Iverson let them – finally – choose their own partners, instructing them collectively on how to shield themselves from blows, and observing each pair from afar.

“I figured it was time,” Lance said, lifting both of his arms in front of his face – what would serve as protection from debris in space – as Keith was pressing on them. “Hunk caught me sneaking out of the shower last night and I freaked out and told him I sleep-walked into it. I don't even sleep-walk!”

Lance explained all of it on the bus ride to Quinn – him not getting a scholarship for junior year, finding the job in a nearby Nevada town, and Keith finding out about it. It felt strange to Keith, walking by the laundromat, taking the bus, stepping off at the familiar welcome sign of Quinn, and going to the Pizza Galaxy square through the narrow passage from the main street, with people other than Lance and him, even though they were his friends.

Throughout it all, Pidge and Hunk listened quietly, going only as far as to nod at Lance in understanding. When he was done, Pidge asked quietly, “Why didn't you tell us?”

“Did we act in a way that would make you not want to tell us?” Hunk added, brow furrowed.

“No, no, no, guys.” Lance shook his head solemnly. “I didn't want to tell anyone because I didn't want you to get _that_ kind of perception of me. The stereotype. The only one out of this whole bunch to miss out on a scholarship.”

“That's not the way we see you, Lance,” Pidge said, placing an elbow over the round table before her – it vaguely looked like venus. “You're still our pilot.”

“Yep,” Hunk agreed. “Scholarship or no scholarship.”

Lance smiled from ear to ear, then hooked his arms around Pidge and Hunk's necks and squeezed them into a hug, before running off to change to his baby-blue uniform and serve pizzas, the midday sun flushing the nape of his neck.

 

February 8 th , 11:12 p.m.

Pidge and Hunk ended up leaving after Lance's first break from work, saying a thousand apologies before taking the bus back to work on their final projects – for every class aside from the fighter pilot class, those were a written essay instead of a flight test in a real jet.

That left Keith alone with Lance, in a conversation that felt suddenly quiet without their friends, then taking a bus and walking down an empty road, their clocks skirting midnight.

They were halfway back to the Garrison, when a passing gray cloud overhead began drizzling rain, and a little closer than that when it began pouring.

“Jesus!” Lance screamed at the sky, maybe as protest, maybe as a prayer, as he stretched his khaki-green jacket over his head, then grabbed Keith's wrist and began running the other way.

“What are you –?”

“We won't make it back to the Garrison,” Lance called, the rapid taps of the rain muffling his voice as they ran the way they came from, Lance swinging the glass _Wash 'n Go_ door open and closing it behind the two of them, both panting.

It was a second before a lightning cracked outside, painting the desert skies a pale pink and the fluorescent lamps over their heads shut off at once.

"Déjà-vu much?" Lance asked, frowning, sliding to the floor against a washing machine. He was shaking – trembling hands clinging to his dripping jacket, his lips pale and quivering.

“Take that off,” Keith said, gesturing at Lance's jacket, now deep, dark green. “You'll get sick”

“I'll get cold is what I'll get!” Lance protested. Even his words were shaky; and before Keith knew what he was doing, he slid his own coat off and handed it to Lance.

“Mine's thicker, and it's dry inside,” he said, shaking the red coat in his hand.

Lance stared at it for a moment, then shrugged his drenched jacket off – but instead of putting Keith's on, he patted the floor next to him. “We can share,” he said. “You'll take a sleeve and I'll take a sleeve.”

It was silly, but it was all they had, and it was useless arguing with Lance anyway, so Keith complied, crouching down beside him until their knees touched, and spreading his coat over both of them like a blanket.

Looking out the window, Keith could easily see Lance was right. It was a real storm out there, raindrops flying sideways in sheets upon sheets, lightning and thunder reigning over the desert sky. They would never have made it to Galaxy Garrison, and if they would, they'd be sick for a month.

“Keith,” Lance said suddenly, voice quiet, serious, low.

Keith turned to find tears in Lance's eyes, and him looking away. Sirens played in Keith's head when Lance wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. _What's wrong?_ he wanted to ask. _Please, just tell me what's wrong_ , he wanted to say. _I can't bear to see you cry_ , he thought, and knew he would never speak it out loud, any of it.

“I just,” Lance huffed, “– it's just, telling Hunk and Pidge today about the whole deal with the scholarship – it made me want to be honest. Completely. And I haven't been completely honest with you.”

Keith blinked. “What do you mean?”

Lance swallowed, fidgeting with the collar of Keith's draped coat. Turning it up, folding it down, then turning it up again. “Do you remember I told you – I said that there's a lot I have to tell you, after Christmas break. Well, I meant it. And... it's a lot.”

“Lance, you're scaring me,” Keith heard himself whisper, though he didn't hear himself say it.

Lance laughed at that – a short-lived, grim laughter. “I swear I don't want to,” he said, half a cry. “it's just... on Christmas, it was my brother's two years. I thought you should know that.”

“Two years?” Keith breathed, and he regretted it as soon as he did.

“My brother's dead, Keith,” Lance said flatly. Just like that he said it, like it was another fact of life he was used to, like gravity pulling or butterflies flying or pale pink desert storms.

Keith's brain decided to play a film for him, a sad film. In it, Lance was the tragic hero – knowing what to say to Keith after the Halloween party on his father's death, not knowing how to describe his family, forgetting how many siblings he had to buy Christmas gifts for.

It was a film Keith felt was always there to watch, but one that he kept turning away until he couldn't anymore. Until he had to see things for what they were. He remembered what Lance had told him before Christmas break, “ _a shitty brother is better than no brother,_ ” and felt sick to his stomach, his throat betraying him and closing away.

“Huh,” Lance said, half a chuckle. “I've never said that out loud.”

“Lance...” Keith said, but he had no idea what to follow it with.

“It's okay,” Lance said, his words broken, his voice fragile. “I mean, it's been two years. It's time that – that I face it. Should start living up to all the letting go I taught you.”

He looked everywhere but at Keith's eyes, just when Keith desperately needed him to, needed to read him, to look at his face.

Lance searched his pocket for his yo-yo, then held it up before him, examining it like an archeologist would study buried bones. "He was the oldest," Lance said after a beat of quiet. "It was him – Maikel, then Jen, then Yeli, then me, then Liz. And it's so... _stupid_ , how lives just come and go and you don't actually give a shit until it's your family.

That's ironic – December 21, the day he died – the shortest day of the year, now the longest for us. I wish I had something heroic about him to tell you – actually, he was pretty much a jerk. He was your stereotype Latino guy – manly, womanizer... and delinquent. God, I hate that word. I hated all of what he was. He had a gang, you know that? I thought those didn't exist – and if they did – why they'd exist near the McClain-Alvarez clan I had no idea. But Maikel had one, of course – of course he had one. Even now, telling you this – I wish I could hate him for it, I wish it to God... But I can't.

He died in a car crash. It was set up by someone – there was no doubt, what with everything he was tangled up with, everything he stood for. He was in debt before he died – a great, big, terrible debt, actually-living-in-poverty debt – I didn't know about it until my older sister whispered it in my ear at his funeral. But the police labeled it as an accident, so now it's an accident. I don't mind – either way he's dead. My _Mamá_ shut off for months, and my sisters had to move back home to help around.

Christmas has never been the same. That's why... that's why I kept talking you into having it. With Maik being gone, I understood what hundreds upon hundreds of philosophers couldn't. I got the meaning of life, Keith. Life is about hanging stupid decorations around the house, and singing Christmas songs, and forcing yourself to be happy even when all you want to do is cry. Life is about having a nice, calm Christmas, because you never know whose last _Navidad_ it might be. That's why no one should spend their holidays alone.”

Keith didn't say anything. How could he? _What_ could he say? His throat was clenched shut, and so were his fists under his coat. Lance bounced his feet, back and forth, back and forth.

“You know what he wanted to be? At three years old, when he got this stupid yo-yo, do you know what he wanted to be when he grew up?” Lance asked, smiling sadly at the yo-yo in his hand, running his thumb gently on it, as if it were fragile. “He wanted to be a pilot. He wanted to fly, Keith. Every day in Galaxy Garrison, every single day I remember it, and keep forcing myself out of bed and into class, keep smiling at customers at the Pizza Galaxy. Even if that means being the ugly Latino stereotype – being flirty, and stupid, and too poor for my own good – I do it every day all over again, because my dead brother wanted to be a pilot when he was three, and that legacy of his became my own dream. Maybe that's Maik's way of haunting me, by pushing me forward. I – I think that's pretty heroic.”

Lance was now crying, but he was smiling – a rainbow formed through rain and sun. It broke Keith's heart, to see him do that; to see him hold on to that stupid blue yo-yo for dear life through flashes of lightning that painted his face a pale gold.

“He'd be proud of you, Lance,” Keith said, grabbing Lance's wrists beneath the blanket of his jacket. He didn't know where the strength to do it, the strength to even speak up, to move a muscle, but he was thankful for it. He wanted to ground Lance, to remind him the world kept spinning, but Keith was never good with words. He focused all of that to his grip on Lance's hands instead, pressing kindly, softly, like Lance squeezed his fingers before Iverson's cardboard puzzle test, an event that felt like something Keith read in a book instead of something he saw through his eyes from how old and foreign it was.

Lance tugged at his wrists, pulling Keith into a hug. It was different than their previous hugs – Lance kept his forehead against Keith's shoulder, while his hands remained in Keith's. It was more than comfort, it was relief, release.

Keith remembered vaguely feeling like hugging Lance, touching Lance, was a universe entirely different from his own. At that moment, he understood that it wasn't. Lance and he weren't different at all; two ends of the same mirror. Keith felt like Lance belonged in his embrace, that his warm, dark hands belonged in Keith's own. Keith came to understand Lance's touch, came to understand his being, and it felt like both the scariest drop in a jet's cockpit, and the most wonderful flower's bloom to be able to be able to hold Lance, to wipe his tears away, and to tell him " _It's okay,_ ” because it really was.

They stayed at _Wash 'n Go_ like that for a while, until the storm had ended, Keith holding onto Lance's wrists, Lance holding onto his yo-yo, huddling for warmth, for support. When they left the laundromat, Lance was bouncing his yo-yo and watching it go. He was smiling, a small smile, a grateful smile, one that could break apart the clouds and bring on an early summer. Maybe not that day, but soon. Soon.

When it started raining again on their way back to the Garrison, it was Keith who grabbed Lance's wrist, and ran, leaving a trail of huffed laughs on the Nevada landscape.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skjdfksjdfhgkjshdkflj the angst is real. btw - i wrote this one before s5 so i got a shocking total of 100% of lance's siblings' names correct! amazing


	22. Gravity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fellas is it gay if:

Gravity

 

February 9 th , 9:09 a.m.

That day on the tarmac, it wasn't just parked jets standing there. There was an actual beast of an astrocraft lying in wait for the junior fighter class, and it was alive, making a steady purr on the concrete. Keith could feel the blood in his veins rushing faster just by looking at it, faint sunrays reflected like diamonds off of its smooth surface. He wanted it, he wanted it so bad.

But Iverson stood before it.

“Today, cadets,” he announced, so loud the whole school could probably hear, with a smile that was a sharp and thin, looking more like a pale scar on his dark skin than lips. “Is the day the next chapter of your lives begins. I want you to see what flying a jet actually looks like before you get to fly it yourselves – so I'll show you. Let's go for a ride.”

A hesitant line was formed hastily behind Iverson, leading the swarm into the rattling astrocraft. He gestured at the seats on each side of the cockpit, and everyone took a seat and strapped themselves to them without question.

It was a special jet, Keith knew – a real jet, made for a big crew exploring planets far, planets that earth was nothing but a dot in the sky for. It was simple, yet elegant, its colors matching the orange and white of the Garrison's uniform. Everything about it seemed grand, great. It made Keith's heart race with possibility, anticipation. Next to him, Lance's brow was furrowed, his leg bouncing nervously.

“Today we will be reaching an altitude of 32,000 feet,” Iverson said. “Do any of you know what this means?”

Lance gulped next to Keith. When Keith looked over, he was sweating, skin looking paler and paler by the moment.

“We will be able to feel zero gravity,” Andrea Sheinfield said, her hand raised high.

“Correct,” Iverson said. “Though, I wouldn't let the floating distract you. I want all of you to see me at work, to understand what it means to be a pilot really, outside of fancy tales, outside of theory books, outside of the simulation room. Take it in, because this is what flying really is. You should be able to name all of the gear I will be using during this flight – it's time you'll _feel_ what it does.”

And with that, Iverson left the class sitting behind, taking the big chair, the pilot seat. The rattle of the jet became harder, and white stripes of light turned on by the cadets' feet.

Keith turned to Lance, who was now desperately pulling at his yo-yo string. “Are you – ?”

That was all Keith managed to ask him, because then, no warning given, the astrocraft kicked off ground.

Keith would like to say that he was prepared for that to happen, that he was born ready for an astrocraft to shoot him up, but the honest truth was, he wasn't. It seemed similar to the jet of the simulation room, but felt nothing like it, and that made concentrating on what Iverson's hands were doing – concentrating on anything, actually – impossibly hard.

He wasn't the only one feeling that way, it seemed – looking around, there were cadets screaming in terror, laughing from the sudden adrenaline rush, and covering their ears from the sudden air pressure change. Even Andrea Sheinfield looked horrified, clenching her fists, her bangs getting swept up her forehead.

When Keith looked over at Lance, though, he was none of those. He had his eyes closed, too, but his mouth was half-open, muttering. Praying. Within a second he opened his eyes, and even though Keith could hear practically nothing, he could see Lance's chest heaving up and down, breathing hard. He looked close to tears.

Keith's ears were ringing in a single high-pitched note, and Lance caught his eye, and he was looking at him with an emotion that was a mixture of distress over his own fears, and concern over Keith's, and Keith knew moving a muscle inside the accelerating jet felt like moving a mountain on earth, but Lance, despite his desperate eyes and hitched breath, did it.

In a tiny motion, behind seatbelts, Lance slid his hand to Keith's, and grabbed on. At first their hands remained frozen like that, Keith looking right into Lance's eyes, and Lance staring back, but as they kept picking up speed, both of them began leaning into the touch more, clutching harder, until both of their palms were firmly holding each other.

They had never done that, Keith realized in a haze. They had hugged. Lance had dragged him by the wrist, demanding, to Quinn's arcade. He had held onto his wrists in turn, when Lance told him about his brother while thunder cried. They squeezed each other's fingers before taking a test. They danced together under the arcade's neon lights, on top of glowing platforms, and they practiced self-defense, a dance on its own, together. But never this, never actually placing palm in palm, hand in hand, and holding on.

It was strange, and intimate, and urgent, and vulnerable, and Keith felt like his body was liquid mercury, spine forgotten, right there, inside a rising jet, and yet it didn't matter, because Lance's hand was in his, and that felt right.

And then, all at once, it all stopped – there was a brief moment of peace, serenity, as the whole jet tore into the grounds of zero-G, as their whole bodies were released of gravity's wearing grasp, and every cadet on the jet began hovering above their seat as much as their seatbelt would allow it.

It was magical – everyone was laughing, or so their faces told, as Keith couldn't hear anything. He thought he laughed, too, a crazed laughter, though he could never be sure. Lance, beside him, hand still clasped in his own, was smiling, too. A tear on the corner of his eye looked like it was about to float away, wander off like a bubble, like the sparkle of a distant star.

And you could see so many of them – stars, so much more than the Nevada desert ever dared to show, all so bright and beautiful, like Keith could just reach out, grab them, and pocket them as a treasured memory, a souvenir from almost-space.

The astrocraft sank lower within another moment, pulling them all gently back to their seats, before rising again, then falling again, and rising yet again.

Keith's hearing improved just in time to hear the sound of Lance's laugh next to him, a laugh more musical than the most beautiful of arias. There were thousands of stars Keith could see, several he could name, each more enchanting than the next. There were thousands of stars to see, but Keith was looking at Lance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is probably my favorite chapter out of them all??? dnfgnskdjgnk anyway things get gay and they get gay FAST


	23. Orpheus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka the one where everything goes to shit. i recommend reading this one along with the next one bc everything resolves there hehehe

** a Pilot Falling **

 

Orpheus

 

February 20 th , 6:07 p.m.

Keith was flying above a rocky coastline, and he was crashing, down, down, down.

He steered his control wheel as hard as he could, cutting the astrocraft to the upper right, which proved to be useless, as he still managed to catch a hard hit from the sharp cliff he wasn't supposed to meet, snapping the right wing in half and firing wailing alarms in the cockpit. From there on, it was a free fall down into the depths of a deep plum ocean, an alien environment, and an emotionless voice recording informing him that he had failed the simulation.

Keith fell back into the pilot seat, chest rising and falling fast, his hair clinging to his temples and his forehead. It was the fifth simulation he tried in a span of four days, and he suspected they were getting increasingly worse. He also suspected it was Iverson's flight that set that string of bad test drives in the Garrison's simulation room – ever since that day, Keith couldn't make his mind – or body, for that matter – believe that the make-believe practice rooms the Garrison offered were anything close to a real jet.

Not that it mattered, though – his mind was cluttered, messy, out of focus, and Keith needed to sort it out fast. The days to Iverson's judgement day – the flight test – edged nearer and nearer with every passing day, and Keith could feel its pressure increasing with every failed flight he took inside the simulation room, settling on the back of his neck like heavy weight, uneasy. Like his jet made of pixels, Keith felt like he was slowly sinking, and he hated it.

 

February 21 st , 5:37 p.m.

The next time Keith slid the door to the simulation room open with a hiss of the bolts, Andrea Sheinfield was there.

“Please,” she said, hands working at top speed across the control panel, and shooting even faster than that on screen. “Watch and learn.”

She was making her way under a bridge of rock, a tight mountain range, making a one-eighty to avoid a hit, then making another one just as fast. It was nothing like Keith had ever seen.

"I'd rather take the wheel myself when you're done," Keith mumbled, but he stayed there, grounded in place, fascinated by her skills, the neatness of her turns, the sharpness of her flight. It was almost absurd to Keith that he wasn't watching some movie clip on the screen in front of him, that someone could possibly fly a jet so well.

Keith envied Andrea at that moment, though he knew he shouldn't – she might have been good, but she was reckless, brash, all edges and wildness. She had even less control than Keith, relying purely on instinct, holding nothing back. Keith couldn't picture what would such an approach look like on him, if he were the one letting his passion carry him through the hoops the simulation screen had to offer, if he had lost his control.

"Take the wheel yourself?" she repeated, her words sinister at their core despite her innocent voice. "You and which co-pilot? Your sidekick, McClain, always on your tail to follow you around? Or is it Takashi Shirogane now, the person you guilt-tripped into giving you every privilege this place has to –"

“Shut up.” The words were breathed out of Keith's throat before he could think them through. “Shut the fuck up.”

He was by the pilot chair within seconds, swinging it the other way, causing Andrea's plane to crash into the mountainside on the screen and catch on fire.

“Listen to me,” he gritted, his cheeks and ears burning. “You don't know anything about me. You don't know anything about my life. Stay the _fuck_ out.”

Andrea coked a brow at that, her smug expression swallowed by her neatly formed brown bangs. “Oh, I _don't_ know? Kogane, has it ever crossed your mind that we're practically the same?”

“I'm nothing like you,” Keith shot, eyes hardened.

“You aren't?” she said, crossing her arms. “I can see the way you need flight. Like a _drug_. I know you do, because I'm like that, too. You were born into it – so was I. You crave it – so do I. You have the same want for flight that I do, but you're willing to let it go to waste before you use it to its fullest. That's the difference between us – I make my own path to walk in, while you let others walk all over you. I don't know you, but I know about you, and I know what others know about you. And I know that where I see potential, they see nothing. But sure – if you'd like – take the control wheel off of my hands. Enjoy being McClain's shield, or Shiro's orphan, or whatever else the others see you as. I'll be in a cockpit, ready to fly.”

And with that, she got up and left the room, leaving Keith behind with heavy air and eyes fixed on a burning plane standing on a mountain.

 

February 21 st , 7:12 a.m.

Keith woke up on his own the next morning, no alarm, no knock on his door, his mouth dry and the first thought in his mind being that he was tired of sleeping, as if that made any sense.

He dragged himself to the bathroom, then out of his dorm, to the halls of the Garrison. He took a detour instead of heading straight for the food hall, walking by the corkboard of the score charts. That day, being a normal day of the month, they were empty of visitors, and that felt surprisingly vacant to Keith, standing there without no one else pushing him in attempts to gain a better look on their monthly score.

“Fourth _again?_ ” Lance had said, the beginning of that same month, narrowing his eyes with disbelief at the scoreboard.

“That's good,” Keith reminded him.

“Yeah, but it's not any better!” he prodded at the pinned pieces of paper with vigor, as if they were responsible for his place on the list.

Keith pointed at his own place on the charts – second, coming after Sheinfield. “Mine isn't either,” he said.

Lance was still frowning, but he sighed. Back then, it had been, weirdly, a comfort for the both of them.

Back in reality, Keith's eyes were fixed on his place on the list. Andrea's name above his was scorched in his vision, mocking him in every way imaginable, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He hated her, hated everything about her – but he couldn't help but hear her words, play over and over again in his head, an infinite song: “ _Enjoy being McClain's shield, or Shiro's orphan, or whatever else the others see you as._ ”

Keith was a hissing firework before that chart, jaw clenched hard, knuckles white in fists. He hated Sheinfield, despised her, but he knew she was right. He was nothing but the fog of rumors to any other cadet walking around. He was nothing to them. He was _nothing_.

But Keith knew nothings were the most dangerous of things, and solemnly, he decided that he would show them, would show everyone, why.

 

February 21 st , 9:12 a.m.

There was a living jet in the tarmac.

It was green like a reptile and just as sly, eerie. Keith's eyes were blank when they were looking at it, despite the burn of his bones or the tug on his stomach.

“Today, I will begin to rank your flying skills,” Iverson said once the whole class was in a line before him. “It's first come, first served. Whoever volunteers first, gets tested first. Whoever volunteers last, well, maybe you could gain the other instructors' respect. I'll be co-piloting throughout the whole way. You should know how to manage an astrocraft like the one you'll be flying now, so I hope for your own sake I won't have to correct any stupid mistakes.”

He looked at them all with a merciless gaze, then smiled coldly and added, “Volunteers?”

There were two hands in the air before anyone else's. Keith didn't even flinch when shooting his own up – his hand was first to rise. A fraction of a second after him, it was Andrea's hand raised from the other end of the row, face emotionless, unsettling.

Iverson studied them both thoroughly, then nodded, pointing one finger at Keith. "You," he said. "Go ahead."

“Keith, don't,” Lance, right next to him, hushed, voice desperate, grabbing the tips of Keith's fingers hard. “Don't get up there.”

“I have to,” Keith answered, his voice sounding harsh and foreign.

“But –“

“Sheinfield has already beat me to the punch in every other task, Lance. I – I have to have this. I have to do this,” Keith said, his anger clashing against Lance's concern like spilled paint in opposite colors.

“You're not like her,” Lance said, voice a whimper, urgent, begging. “Look at her – she's insane! You have to do this when you're ready.”

“I _am_ ready,” Keith gritted through his teeth.

Lance looked taken aback, but all he did was blink in surprise. Then, he grabbed Keith's hand.

The tides turned, right then and there, every muscle in Keith's body urging him to stay next to Lance. It was cruel, cruel how with a touch of his hand he could make Keith shut down and do his bidding.

That was why Keith tore away, running towards the jet and leaving Lance behind, while he still had control over his own body. His blue eyes were the last thing he saw before the doors of the astrocraft shut before him – his blue eyes, and Andrea Sheinfield's cold face.

 

February 21 st , 10:09 a.m.

“Keith Kogane,” Iverson said. “I see you haven't taken my comments seriously.”

“With all due respect, sir, I came here to fly,” Keith said, looking right at him, back straight and shoulders squared. “Not to talk about fire metaphors.”

Iverson nodded gravely, displeased. “Very well,” he said. “The seat is yours.”

Keith took it. Iverson took the one next to it. They buckled their seatbelts at the same time. Keith looked down at his hand, where Lance's hand had been a moment before. He clenched it into a fist around the control yoke.

If he was fire, let him burn.

 

February 21 st , 10:14 a.m.

The truth was, Keith's muscles were already acquainted with all the right movements in order to make a decent flight an excellent one. He knew how to turn a bumpy ride into a smooth one. He knew how to make an astrocraft an extension of his body. How to bring this metal cage to life.

So that's exactly what he did. For a few minutes, he was in an entirely different world, a world where he and the jet were one, where the sky was his home field, and he was the best player in the whole goddamn world. Next to him, Iverson threw an occasional comment, but Keith wasn't there to listen. Keith was a metal bird soaring through a starry sky, flying to the point of no return and back – to a zero slope and to a negative gradient. The air was screaming, the jet was screeching, and Keith felt like a ball of fire in the sky.

His hands worked fast, pulling levers, steering the yoke, making the descent back to the ground a feather's fall, until they weren't falling anymore, until they landed on solid earth.

Keith's whole body beat at the tone his pulse dictated. He knew then that Iverson was right, that he truly was a fire. Flight burned in him, ruled his world, pumped his heart, and he never wanted it to stop.

Iverson shook his hand when Keith got up from the pilot seat, saying words that Keith couldn't decipher. When Keith opened the jet's doors, he was more than a fire. He was no Icarus at all – he was Orpheus, walking through hell and back for his passion.

The problem with being Orpheus, though – he lost the one he truly cared about for the blind feat passion held. Keith learned that, like too many other things, too late.

 


	24. Eurydice

Eurydice

 

February 21 st , 10:38 a.m.

The moment Keith stepped away from the jet, he felt his world crash upon him. No dimention constructed by his mind in the heat of flight would ever account for a real one, and his muscles began aching at standing bound by gravity once more. Keith had landed the space shuttle perfectly, but it felt like a crash. He wondered, for a brief, dark moment, if that had been the same feeling his father felt when his drinks stopped casting their dangerous charm on him.

Someone passed him on his way out, bumping into his shoulder going into the jet after Iverson. Keith was still panting. Red blotches covered his sight. He walked steady, but felt like he was going to fall at any given moment.

“A rush, huh?”

Keith had to focus his eyes to understand Andrea Sheinfield was the one speaking to him, a twisted, sharp smile on her face; and had to focus his mind to understand she had been the one pulling at his strings. There was no better way to set Keith off than setting him up with the venomous stir of jealousy and pride, and Andrea led him to play right into his own grave. She set him off, alright – she let every bolt shutting Keith tight in place loose, let him fall apart. Worst of all, Keith fell for it. He had enjoyed it. He didn't answer, walking past her.

“Don't look so good, Kogane!” she yelled after him, and he could hear the sick laughter in her words.

His eyes searched for a single person in the whole crowd of students. For a pair of blue eyes. He realized he wouldn't find them when he saw Lance leaving the tarmac and into the building, as fast as his feet would carry him.

Keith didn't know he was running after him until he felt an aching pain in his legs, and looked down. His chest was heaving, his lungs were burning. It was such a big change to not be airborne anymore, such a big change to wear the chains of gravity again, that Keith didn't know how he was still conscious.

“Lance!” he called, his voice so low it frightened him.

Lance kept surging forward, long legs tearing through Garrison grounds, running and running and running, like he didn't ever run out of energy, out of will. It was a strong trait, Keith thought in a haze of flashing colors. It was a trait he wished he had.

Keith remembered obscurely coming to the conclusion that Lance and him weren't really different. He stood by that, still, but now he knew exactly how they differed. If they were fires, Keith burned harsher. But he was an explosion – a heat that consumes, burns itself out. Lance was fire in an entirely different way – his touch was warm, for starters; and he was alive, alive like nothing Keith had ever seen, alive more than anyone and anything else on the earth Keith had just seen through a glass window in a jet's cockpit, he was so alive it drove him crazy; and he was constant, eternal, an ever-burning fire that Molotoved its way through Keith's ribs and into the blood his heart was pumping, through Keith's roaring veins, making his whole body ache for more, and more, and more. Lance was ever-lasting, and Keith didn't want to ever lose that heat.

That was why he kept pushing his legs to run, to push through, despite the spin of his head or the lack of his breath, through a maze of corridors, through an empty highway in an empty desert, through the heat and the wind, through a warzone where feelings were bullets and Keith was under heavy fire.

Lance reached the _Wash 'n Go_ laundromat, only a few feet ahead of Keith, took one glance back, then made his way around the building. Keith followed, though when he finally managed to circle the laundromat, the only trace left of Lance was a glimpse of his foot heaving himself up using a water pipe to the building's flat concrete roof, that appeared the height of a mountain to Keith at that moment.

“Lance!” Keith yelled, the scream of his lungs evident in his voice.

"Go away!" Lance's voice was so shaky it was almost unrecognizable.

Instead of that, Keith held onto the pipe and boosted himself up after Lance. “Lance,” he said, a plea, almost a whisper, the howl of the wind swallowing his voice.

Lance was sitting on the other edge of the gray, dusty roof, his knees pulled close to his chest, his face buried between them.

Keith's hands closed into fists. He couldn't bear seeing him like this, this small, this broken down. He was the one who did that. He made Lance tear apart, he did it, for a hollow victory and nothing more. Keith hated himself at that moment more than he could say, more than he could even comprehend. He was full of useless shame, pointless guilt, over losing the thing he could never afford to lose.

“Lance, I'm –“

“You could have died, Keith.” Lance's voice was thin, fragile like glass. “You jumped on that jet just to prove a point, just to spite Sheinfield.”

Keith was next to him in two quick strides, falling on the concrete beside him, a loss, a defeat.

“I've never seen you like that,” Lance mumbled, then turned his head to look at Keith. His face had reddened and become wet of tears, his eyes were no different. He looked like Lance, but was nothing like Lance. “You were downright scary, Keith.”

“Lance –“

“You _knew_ you weren't ready, you _knew_ you weren't flying for the right reasons, and you went anyway!” Lance had unfolded now, body turned right at Keith. “You could have died, and you went anyway! You went just for the challenge!”

“How could I not?” Keith yelled back. It was the wrong thing to say, he knew – it was gritting to just say the words, but he couldn't shut his mouth once he had opened it. “Ever since I stepped into the Garrison, everyone's been looking at me like I'm there on a free ride because of Shiro! I have to prove myself, every day I have to be first in line, to rise above circumstances, just so I'm not orphan Kogane with the pity scholarships! So yeah, I stepped up when I wasn't ready. Yes, I could have died. But it's in the job description, Lance – I'm a fighter pilot, how can I let myself play around?”

“Is it _playing around_ to be safe?” Lance was now screaming at the top of his lungs, his finger prodding hard at Keith's chest. He sniffed, lip quivering, voice falling, shaking. “Is – is it _playing around_ to come back safe? To come back _for me?_ ”

And then Lance began crying, falling onto Keith's chest. His shoulders were shaking, and so were Keith's when he wrapped his arms tight around Lance, and so they set, sprawled on top of a roof in each other's arms, crying.

“I was so scared, Keith,” Lance cried into Keith's shirt.

“I know,” Keith huffed onto Lance's hair.

“You could have died,” he said.

“I know,” Keith repeated.

Lance placed his hands on Keith's back, pressing hard.

“I can't – you have to know that I can't afford to lose you,” Lance whispered.

“I know,” Keith breathed.

Lance kept talking softly, one sentence at a time, and Keith kept hushing back quiet agreements, that he prayed to the desert skies through which he had torn were enough.

 

February 21 st , 10:46 a.m.

They were both a sniffling, trembling mess by the time they stopped crying.

Lance tore away from Keith, and Keith felt cold were his heat had been on his chest. He held his pinky up for Keith.

“Promise me,” he said. “Promise you won't go out of your way to prove yourself, to put your life at risk.”

Keith looked at Lance's hand, then at his own. He raised it, curling his own pinky around Lance's.

Then Lance did something scary, something Keith knew he'll dream about, but didn't know if it would be in the form of a dream or a nightmare, something Keith was sure would be the last thing his mind played for him before he died.

Lance took their intertwined pinkies, and pressed a kiss on them, sealing the promise. Then, he let Keith's hand go.

“I'm sorry,” Keith said, voice a huffed breath, cheeks flushed – both from the wind, and from Lance. And for a moment, the chasm in his chest was mended, filled with a feeling he couldn't begin to understand, and the sky was whole, and pink, and infinite.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a pain to write lmao dkjfglskdjgskj those pining fools


	25. of Flying and Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *runs and hides*

of Flying and Falling

 

March 6 th , 10:38 a.m.

Keith never let Lance slip away through his fingers again.

He kept by his side, not letting a day go by without talk. He kept his promise – whichever opportunity rose to prove his worth, Keith didn't take, despite all of his instincts telling him otherwise. The promise he had made to Lance was more important than going out of his way to prove himself, and he now knew better than his instincts, anyway.

That month hadn't brought much productivity in terms of school – it was all revising and exams in Flight Theory class, as the previous semester occupied most of the space in their brain. Mr. Harris announced the class will soon be over in favor of the rehearsals for the upcoming air show, and no one managed to mask their joy, not even Mr. Harris himself.

Iverson's class was the same cutout routine every day – students taking turns in flying jets, two at a time. Usually they were awful and had to retake the test the next class, saving themselves from a sure crash only by Iverson's presence in the astrocraft, but occasionally some students, those who ranked high on the February scoreboard, did well on the first try.

Andrea was one of them, of course – just a day after Keith's flight, she took the wheel, her chin tilted up as she walked into the astrocraft, looking at every other cadet with her cruel, brown eyes, to ensure everybody knew whose flight was going to be the best. Iverson walked in after her, closing the jet doors with one hard pull.

Everyone had stared in anticipation, on edge. Keith's muscles hurt. No one dared to speak, as if that would ruin the magic.

And then it happened – the jet's rumble became increasingly louder, then a blast – it was off, shooting towards the sky in speeds unreal.

The class all gasped at once. The jet flew higher and higher, faster and faster yet, keeping all the watchers mesmerized, following it like following the trail of a comet, until it was nothing but a star in the sky.

Then, it became bigger, descending, falling, gaining some cheers and some claps. The landing was near perfect, almost vertical, and within moments, the doors opened to reveal a sweat-coated, wild-eyed Andrea Sheinfield. She was breathing hard, and her fringe was stuck to her forehead, and she was smiling, a crazy smile, a changed smile.

Stepping out, she looked more alien than human.

Lance didn't raise his hand to volunteer a single time during the whole month, and Keith knew he was terrified to end up at the bottom of the list. He also knew that Lance was terrified of actually taking the test, by the utter fear on his face every time he watched a cadet sky-rocket, but by the beginning of March, he didn't have all that much of a choice.

“I'm going to volunteer today,” Lance told Keith at breakfast one day, and even though Keith knew it was coming, he choked on his cereal.

"Are you sure?" he asked him, brow furrowed in concern. After he himself stepped up before he was ready to climb that mountain, he needed to know Lance was going to fly under the right circumstances.

Lance swatted his comment away with his hand. “Totally.”

There was not a part of him that wasn't shivering on the way to class, but Keith didn't want to kill his morale, and so all he could do when Lance finally raised his hand at Iverson, was to grab the fingers of his other hand, and press. He felt like that motion alone could end him and the whole plane they were living in, but he was still alive when Lance got picked, and still alive when Lance let go of his grip and got into the jet, and still alive, albeit short of breath, when Lance gave him a small smile before the doors of the astrocraft closed between them.

Andrea came to stand next to Keith just as that happened. She was smiling, a smug smile on her pale, scarecrow face. “You put up quite the show last time. Looks like my advice did help you after all. The only thing that still boggles my mind is, why someone like you would waste his time with that guy.”

“Who else, then? You?” Keith gritted, not giving her the satisfaction of looking at her.

“If you wanted to make it big in the world of astro-exploring, that'd be a good start,” she spat, every trace of a smile gone from her gray face, her jaw set. “You must have heard of my mother, Michaela Martinez, just as I have heard of your father, Cyrus Kogane.”

“Martinez,” Keith muttered.

_That_ was who she reminded Keith of. He remembered Martinez's face from his walk down the hall channels inside the Garrison, where the framed picture of her hung in the pride cabinet. He obscurely remembered her appearing at his father's funeral with her daughter – _that_ daughter – the one standing in front of Keith looking ghostly.

Michaela Martinez had the same sharp chin as Andrea, the same harsh expression, the same wide brown eyes. Her skin was darker than Andrea's pale skin, and she definitely looked more lively in that single picture of than Andrea did living and moving in front of Keith – but still, the similarity was so obvious Keith felt stupid for not even figuring it out.

“You're her daughter,” Keith said in disbelief.

“I'm more than that, Kogane,” she said, thin lips curling into a twisted smile. “I'm your widest door to the real world. To a real cockpit. Lots of people wanna fly an astrocraft, Keith. I will fly one. If you want to, too, maybe you should start taking your biggest opportunity yet seriously. Like I said, we really could help each other out.”

Her dark eyes were pinned to Keith's in an insidiousness Keith couldn't figure out – until a loud grumble tore the air and ended their stare-off, drawing their gazes to the khaki jet.

“Showtime,” Andrea said.

The astrocraft burst into the air. Keith's heart sank at that, grounding him to reality again, his eyes following every move of the jet. But if Lance was hesitant, it didn't show at all.

His flight was beautiful – it was graceful, elegant, but fierce and crisp, everything a flight should be. He didn't stutter, his trajectory wasn't wobbly or unsteady. He was a god up there, and Keith admired him for every second of it. His squinting eyes were full of tears by the time the jet had become a tiny spark in the sky, the sun taking its toll on them, but Keith kept watching anyway, a hand on his forehead placed as part protection of the sun's rays, and part a salute, to the greatest pilot he had ever seen. Even his landing was magical, soft and gentle, nothing harsh about it.

There was no student who wasn't gaping in awe. It was tempting to flash a braggy smile at Andrea Sheinfield, but Keith decided against it, knowing the victory wasn't his to show it off. The thought was completely erased from his head, along with every other thought, once the jet's doors opened, and Lance, smiling brightly, bounced out of it in triumph.

Iverson called all the students' attention to him to update them on who had to retake the test and who was yet to take it, but Keith never came. Lance didn't either, running right towards Keith, all wild and sweating and screaming of joy.

Keith had his arms open just in time for Lance to jump into them, and he grabbed him so tight that he managed to spin him in the air twice before the momentum ran out and he had to put him back on the ground.

They let out awkward giggles at that, Keith rubbing at the nape of his neck, and Lance just laughing it off in a true Lance fashion.

He laughed. “That was the most insane thing I have ever done in my entire life,” Lance said.

“You did it well – you were amazing up there,” Keith said, his words half a laugh themselves, his cheeks feeling strained from the size of his smile in the best way possible. “You were more than that – you were wonderful.”

Lance's smile never faltered. "I'm going to take a victory shower," he said decidedly, "then, I'm going to dump all these sweaty, drenched clothes into a Wash 'n Go washing machine, with a mountain of detergent powder. And then, I wanna climb onto our roof again. And you're coming along."

“Then, you should probably hurry up and shower already.” Keith crossed his arms, watching Lance skip away back to the building, still full of adrenaline.

It was the most ridiculous thing he had ever seen. If Keith hadn't known Lance, he'd say it was impossible that it was the same person a second ago flying overhead with grace. Luckily, Keith did know Lance, and he treasured both the elegant pilot and the crazy boy.

 

March 6 th , 11:21 a.m.

Lance was out of his room after a few minutes, still dripping from his victory shower, while Keith was still taking his. The moment he was dressed he kicked the door open, and Lance didn't even have to drag him for both of them to run.

They stopped running halfway to the laundromat, laughing instead, catching their breaths, cheering at the desert breeze. Lance fulfilled his promise, killing the detergent bag on top of his washing machine, and Keith had to pray what was left in it was sufficient for his own dirty clothes.

After that, they went around the back of the building again, then used the hanging water pipe as a rope to climb with, Lance first, then Keith later, Lance grabbing his hand once he was close enough and pulling him to the roof.

They laughed a little, a fluttery kind of laugh, the kind that settled in Keith's chest, then sat on the ledge of the gray concrete roof, their legs loosely hanging off, swinging to the likes of the wind over the flickering neon sign of the laundromat.

Lance took a deep breath. “You know what?” he said. “I could use a victory song, like a hymn. To celebrate.”

Keith shook his head in laughter, his hair falling on his eyes, courtesy of the desert winds, but he whipped his cellphone and earphones out of his pocket and handed it to Lance. "I don't have much music, but you can try to find something here."

Lance picked the phone from Keith's hand with a wide smile that made his cheeks stand out. Then, plugging in the earphones and going through Keith's music, he frowned at the screen.

“What is this?” Lance's finger swiped in long motions over the scratched surface of the screen of Keith's phone. His frown was deepening with every swipe, disapproving. “Radiohead – Creep? Do I Wanna Know? Boston? This is, like, prehistoric shit.”

Keith shrugged. “It's nice.”

“It's a hundred years old!” Lance exclaimed, his free arm waving passionately in the air. “Plus, it's all depressing as hell, man.”

Keith shrugged again. Lance sighed and shook his head, dropping the phone back onto Keith's lap, plucking the earphone cord from it, and taking out his own cellphone from his pocket.

“Enough of that,” he said, plugging Keith's earphones into his own phone, a playful smile creeping on his lips. “We're listening to the good stuff now.”

Keith huffed, and his shoulder rubbed softly against Lance's in a motion that raised the seam of Lance's short, light-blue sleeve, and exposed a strip of slightly-lighter skin. He wore a similar T-shirt to work, Keith knew. The sun was unforgiving on his brown skin, making it darker and shinier where his skin was constantly exposed, and Keith wondered how much time exactly he'd spent under its rays while serving pizzas.

Lance gave one earphone to Keith, and began shuffling through his own music library, studying Keith's reaction to every song.

"What?" Lance's brows were practically over his eyes, his mouth slanted in dissatisfaction.

“Your _good stuff_ and my _good stuff_ are really different,” Keith answered simply.

Lance groaned, rolling his eyes in the most melodramatic way. “Fine. Name a song, then. A song that'll fit both our definitions of _good_ _stuff._ ”

Keith bit into his cheek in thought. Meanwhile, Lance kept going through his songs, waiting no longer than a second on each one before switching to the next.

Then – “Wait! Hold on, go back.” Keith wanted to make sure he'd heard correctly.

Lance was now staring at Keith, examining his reaction carefully when he pressed the button to return to the previous tune.

Keith felt a smile spreading on his mouth, from cheek to cheek, like poison making its ways through veins. Good poison, though. _Great_ poison.

“This one's old,” Keith mentioned.

“Yeah,” Lance confirmed. “But it's a classic.”

They looked at each other, both surprised – both smiling wildly. There it was. A song for them both. A victory song.

“ _Open your eyes,_ ” Keith mouthed. “ _Look up to the skies and see._ ”

Lance was fast to join. “ _I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy,_ ” he shouted into the Nevada wind, which was quick to steal his words.

“ _Because I'm easy come, easy go,_ ” Keith sang.

“ _Little high, little low,_ ” Lance completed.

Then, both of them – “ _Any way the wind blows, doesn't really matter to me, to me._ ”

The wind was blowing with no restraint, as if to demonstrate the lyrics. It whistled in Keith's ears like a siren song, a whisper, accompanying _Bohemian Rhapsody_ playing from Lance's phone. Both Keith and Lance's hair was a whip against their faces, and so were their pants, sticking to their legs as they were swinging lightly off of the roof to the music.

" _Mama, just killed a man,_ " Lance sang, softly. His voice was as sweet as his smile.

" _Put a gun against his head,_ " Keith completed. " _Pulled my trigger, now he's dead._ "

" _Mama,_ " they both sang. " _Life had just begun; but now I've gone and thrown it all away._

_Mama, oooh, didn't mean to make you cry; if I'm not back again_ _this time tomorrow, carry on, carry on, as if nothing really matters_."

They were looking at each other now, instead of the stretched out desert; Keith wasn't sure when that happened.

" _Too late, my time has come, sends shivers down my spine, body's aching all the time._

_Goodbye, everybody, I've got to go. Gotta leave you all behind to face the truth._ "

" _Mama_ ," Lance cried, hair in his eyes, smile on his lips. " _Oooh, I don't wanna die, I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all._ "

he held up a mock air-guitar in his hands, and played it masterfully. Keith laughed, and the sound came from his heart instead of his stomach, soft.

They had fun with that second verse, casually chanting “ _Galileo_ ”s and " _no, no, no, no, no, no, no!_ "s, all ruffled hair and fond smiles – Keith couldn't always hit the low parts, Lance couldn't always reach the high – but it didn't matter, as they were both listening. Both living.

At the third, they joined at full force again.

" _So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye? So you think you can love me and leave me to die?_

_Oh, baby, can't do this to me, baby, just trying to get out, just trying to get right out of here._ "

Lance began nodding his head to the beat, then Keith did the same, and then they were practically whipping their whole upper bodies to the ferocious electric guitar and with each time they came dangerously close to budding heads.

Then the original melody was back all at once, and they had to steady each other, Keith grabbing Lance's shoulder loosely, and Lance palming his neck, both made of hitched breaths and fluttered eyes.

" _Nothing really matters,_ " sang Lance's phone.

Neither of them joined. Keith's chest felt heavy, an ache and a torture, to be so close to Lance's face, to feel his heat under his hand, his breath on his chin. He was never fond of contact, but no contact with Lance seemed to ever be enough for him, no closure ever being close enough. He longed to touch him, wanted it with a force stronger than gravity drawing him down inside a jet.

" _Anyone can see._ "

Lance gulped, swaying so lightly it could've been a movement of the wind, and Keith could feel his collarbone shifting. He wasn't smiling anymore, and neither was Keith. Lance looked small, and Keith felt small, and it was all so vulnerable it was killing him, and so strong he felt it in his gut, tugging at his soul, a hand grasping at his heart through his skin and muscles and bones. With every fraction of time that passed, Keith felt like he was going to fall apart, he was _bound_ to, and the only thing that was holding him together were Lance's hands on his neck.

" _Nothing really matters._ "

Lance's brow furrowed in something painful that Keith couldn't understand, not then and there, not when they were so close, not when Lance's amber skin was catching the orange halo of the midday sun in a sight that was more breathtaking than a thousand midday suns, or setting suns, or rising suns, or dying suns. He was shivering, Keith felt. Or maybe it was his own hand that was shivering on Lance's shoulder. Or maybe it was both – Keith couldn't feel where his own body ended and where Lance's began.

" _Nothing really matters._ "

Lance's breath became faster within a beat, hitching, like he was about to sing the song all over again, and he looked like someone plunging into the deep end of the pool for the first time, or a bird taking the leap of faith, flying at the mercy of the wind. Fearful, but decisive. It was so painful to watch, a sweet ache that settled in Keith's muscles.

Keith wanted to cry and to scream and to bury his face in Lance's neck, but he couldn't bring himself to do any of those. He couldn't even bring himself to move, to tear his eyes from Lance's hair falling in wind-blown strands on his forehead; or his eyes, planets of ocean and sorrow, not even when he began leaning in.

Lance's face was painted with rough brushstrokes of pink and orange when he kissed Keith. He missed the musical cue, Keith thought in a haze as his eyelids fluttered shut, the only part of his body and mind and whole being that remembered to function correctly.

It was the softest of kisses, and even softer than that. Lance's lips didn't move, and Keith's didn't either – he didn't dare move, like the kiss was hung on a fragile balance that he didn't dare to tip, should it break.

And it felt like the kiss could break some sort of balance – in fact, it felt like it could break all the balances, build and tear ecosystems, birth and kill galaxies of stars, like a nuclear bomb waiting to happen, potential power buzzing with electricity, a lightning rod between their gentle, chapped lips.

Keith's grip on Lance's shoulder tightened, not wanting it to stop, not when he was finally touching Lance, something so fleeting, like holding water. Lance's hands on him did the opposite, hovering over his skin carefully, moving from his neck, to his hair, to his shoulders, and back to his neck; all so calculated, all so Lance.

But Lance's grip on Keith, his real grip on him, was stronger, as strong as a supernova, or a quasar, or the laws of physics, or maybe even stronger. It was his hand, Keith knew, his hand that was grabbing at his heart, pulling at it relentlessly, until Keith's veins carried his name like a river of fire inside of him, until the only thing he was certain about was the essence of a blue-eyed boy and his own devotion to him. It was his, always his.

Always his.

" _To me_."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaaaaaadfjgsdkjfgkjsdfj i died about 5000 times writing this one so


	26. Any Way The Wind Blows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, who has written the story and read it over 5 times, crying: wow i wonder where do we go from here??

Any Way  The Wind Blows

 

March 6th, 11:25 a.m.

Keith was kissing Lance, but he couldn't be kissing Lance.

It was impossible – not because of him, or because of Lance – it was because of philosophy.

It was called _Zeno's paradox_. Lance told him about it one afternoon, over lunch in the Pizza Galaxy patio, with strands of teal stars shining over them, which was why he knew he couldn't be kissing Lance.

The paradox went something like this – suppose there were two objects, and one was moving towards the other. In order to reach it, the moving object would have to pass the halfway point. And then, it would have to do it again, and again, and again; there were endless halfway points the moving object would have to pass to reach the other, which meant it would never reach it – _two objects cannot touch_.

That was why it was a paradox – that was why it was impossible that Keith was kissing Lance.

And yet, he was.

And yet, Lance was kissing him back.

The kiss defied all logic, and yet it made complete sense to Keith.

That was what kissing Lance felt like – correct, right. The line between possible and impossible got wiped completely by his kiss, and Keith's knees were delightfully weak at the thought.

 


	27. Kiss of Life

Kiss of Life

 

March 6 th , 11:27 a.m.

_Keith kissed Lance_.

At some point, their intertwined lips drew away, slowly. It wasn't slow enough; Keith suspected nothing would ever be. He wasn't sure how long they had been kissing – seconds, minutes, hours, weeks, years, eons – but that also felt not enough. Not enough time of Keith tasting Lance's lips, not enough time of feeling each other's skin beneath their fingertips. _They kissed._

They were still close, so close, and it took all of Keith's willpower to not close that distance again. He felt Lance's breath on his lips, huffed and sweet like cinnamon. When Keith's eyes fluttered open, the last enchantment of the kiss left behind, he saw Lance's eyes looking right at him, still desperate.

Despite the kiss being soft, both of them were panting. Keith's hands moved to cup Lance's neck at some point, and Lance's palms were resting on his cheeks. _He kissed him_.

“What the hell did we just do,” Lance whispered, and his words tickled on Keith's upper lip.

He swallowed, then let his hands fall, then backed away slowly, placing his fingers on his lips. Keith found himself doing the same, fluttering, but if he was trying to study them, he wasn't concentrated enough for it, and if he was trying to recreate Lance's touch on them, it wasn't working.

Lance gulped, then huffed a laugh, then swallowed again. "Keith!" he insisted, voice an octave higher. "What the hell did we just do?" he repeated. "Am I dehydrated and hallucinating? Is this another one of this stupid desert's tricks?"

Keith huffed, collecting his knees to his chest like a shield. He began shaking again – he wasn't sure when he had stopped. _They kissed._

Lance moved his hands to cover his mouth, eyes fixed on nothing, brow low. “What are we going to do? This is – everything about that was so different.”

Keith nodded silently. They sat there for a while, letting their thoughts simmer, the traces of that kiss touching them softly with every breath of the wind. _They kissed_.

“Why did we kiss, Keith?” Lance asked then, voice as gentle as his lips, eyebrows furrowed. It was puzzling him to oblivion - Keith knew that by his desperate voice and by his painful, _unfair_ , eyes.

He wished he could answer it, wished he could make his brain fire a signal to his jaw and make him say something, anything. But he couldn't. He didn't have the answer, he didn't have any answers, and so he simply remained paralyzed in place, mind numb and unfocused, a haze of colors and feelings that he couldn't begin to decipher, and he was almost certain that if the wind blew at that moment, he would be swept right off the roof.

Why _did_ they kiss?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoiler: the answer to that question is not heterosexual


	28. Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you hear a cow mooing in the distance it's me ugly sobbing as i revise this fic again

Heart

 

March 6 th , 9:27 p.m.

The rest of the day was hidden behind thick clouds of thought for Keith.

He didn't show up for dinner, and it wasn't even because he wanted to avoid sitting at the same table with Lance – in reality, Keith spent an eternity so long under the cold stream of the shower, that when he got out of it, dripping and pale, it was too late anyway. He thought about asking Shiro to make some, but the thought floated away as soon as it came – every thought did – until it was just Keith lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, searching for something he could hang onto, an answer, any answer at all.

Keith didn't know what answers he was looking for. In all honesty, he didn't even understand the question – why did they kiss? Was it the music? The desert? Lance's flight to the skirts of the earth and back?

It was all too cluttered for Keith to understand, to even remember properly. He let his hands drift to his mouth, let his fingers brush over his lips, the lips that Lance was kissing not too long ago. That thought was wrong, filling Keith with frustrated helplessness so emptying that all he could do was scream into his hands until his throat hurt and his lungs ached for air.

He thought about taking another shower, one colder than the last, hopefully one that would clear Keith's head, that would wash away all those dangerous thoughts swimming inside of him. He went as far as to let his feet drag to the bathroom, though he ended up only undressing, then staring at his naked body in the mirror.

His hair was a mess, windswept and frizzy. His _face_ was a mess, pink everywhere it shouldn't be. His body was pale, paler than Lance's. _Lance_.

Keith followed the path of his neck, to his collarbone, his shoulders, his arms. There was notable muscle there, not notable bone. Not like Lance's. _Lance_.

Keith trailed back up, then went down again, to his chest, his ribcage, his stomach. He fluttered his fingers over his bare skin until goosebumps appeared beneath them.

He reached his hand to peel his halfway-dried hair away from his skin, then remembered Lance picking flowers off of his hair. He dropped his hand to his side, then remembered Lance wrapping his arms around him in front of the _Killbot Phantasm_ game machine in the arcade. Touched his neck, and felt the traces of Lance's arm draped on it while walking around Quinn.

Everywhere he touched was cursed – Keith felt like Lance's name was invisibly tattooed into every inch of his skin, like his heart was spelling it out with every pump and his veins spread it, carried it to every part of him until there was no place on Keith that wasn't covered with it.

_Whose hands would come to touch this skin?_ He wanted to ask the boy in the mirror. _Who could be there one day, framed by a dirty bathroom mirror, touching this skin?_ He wanted to ask.

_Was it a girl? Was it a guy? Did it even matter?_ Keith's fingertips were now rough on his torso, leaving pink marks wherever they moved. It scared him that he didn't know the answer. It scared him more than anything.

No, not anything. Because his brain provided one word as an answer to all of his questioning, and that scared him even more.

_Lance_ , his mind screamed. _Lance_.

 

March 10 th , 6:07 p.m.

Keith didn't show up for anything on time.

He ate his breakfast after everyone had cleared off to classes, came in late into Mr. Harris' class four out of four times, and didn't bother coming into Iverson's class at all; he needed to think, and for that he needed time for himself – though once he actually had it, he much preferred spending it with someone else.

“Oops, looks like you're in jail. Again.”

Shiro smiled way too brightly as Keith pushed his little metal airplane to the orange spot marked with a drawing of metal bars. It was a sunday, and that meant Keith spent the day in Shiro's house. It became an unsaid agreement between them, at some point – Shiro would just show up at Keith's dorm, and Keith would have his things ready, and Shiro would take him on his hovercraft to his home to spend the weekend. It became something usual.

Then, Shiro did something unusual. He placed his hand on the board, looking Keith dead in the eye, taking Keith by surprise.

“What are you –“

“What are _you_ , Keith,” Shiro said, thick eyebrows drawn together in concern. “That's the third time you're in jail. Something's up.”

“Monopoly is a game of luck!” Keith protested.

“Yeah,” Shiro agreed, “but by the time you've hit jail for more than once, you flip the board, literally. Something's bothering you.”

“Nothing!” Keith exclaimed, maybe a little too fast. Something was bothering him, but he couldn't admit it to himself, let alone to Shiro. “Can we just keep playing?”

“Is someone picking on you? Is it Iverson?” Shiro asked, managing to squeeze a laugh and an eye-roll from Keith.

“First of all, nobody's picking on me. Second of all, I'm almost old enough to vote, I think I can take care of myself. And third of all –“

Shiro frowned, returning an eye-roll of his own. “Keith, I know when something's up, and something's up. Look, you don't have to tell me what it is – just tell me it's not something dangerous, so I can sleep at night.”

It _was_ something dangerous – for Keith it was. He tried his best to shove whatever troublesome thoughts he had about Lance for the last few days into the far back of his mind, tried to ignore them and let them vanish on their own. It was dangerous just to bring them forth again.

Keith sighed in defeat, avoiding Shiro's attentive eyes.

“Something's up,” he admitted quietly.

“I knew it.” Shiro removed his hand from the monopoly board. “What –“

“Nothing dangerous,” Keith cut him off. “Now, can we please play? I was about to beat you.”

Shiro shook his head, then _he_ – carefully – flipped the board. “Come with me,” he simply said, getting up and sliding into his black coat and shoes.

Keith blinked; Shiro sighed. “I wanna show you something,” he said. “Something I know will help. Will you please come?”

Warily, Keith got up after Shiro, following him out the door.

Shiro's front porch was an empty wasteland, reminiscent of the Nevada desert itself; it had a path of wooden planks connecting the front door to the front gate, and all around it were rows of green sprouts popping from the dirt. It looked neat, too neat – if it weren't for Shiro's hoverbike standing right on the front, only mildly blocking the entrance.

Shiro came to stand next to it, patting its seat. “hop on,” he said.

Keith raised a brow at that, but Shiro was already mounting the bike and sticking the key in the ignition. “When something's bothering me, I turn to my trusted hovercraft,” he explained. “There's nothing like the rush of driving it.”

“I don't think the passenger seat's got quite the same charm,” Keith said, crossing his arms.

“True,” Shiro agreed, sliding back in his seat. “That's why you'll be driving.”

Keith had to take the words in for a moment, and even then his surprise couldn't be masked.

“What?”

Shiro shrugged. “You always said you wanted to ride one,” he said. “I want to teach you how. Just ride around the desert, nothing big. If you like it, I can keep teaching you, and then maybe get your permit someday. What do you say?”

What _did_ Keith say? He didn't even know what to think. He inched closer to the bike, step by step, until he could feel its rattle against him. Then, he slid on top of it, situating his hands carefully on the handlebars.

"How do I start?" Keith asked, hesitantly passing his fingers over the cold metal of the bike.

"By being safe, for one," Shiro said, placing a lumpy helmet on Keith's head, just like he did back when Keith was sick and clinging to him. Except now, it was Keith's turn to be in control.

He turned the key, and the whole bike lit up.

 

March 10 th , 6:43 p.m.

Keith didn't know what he expected riding Shiro's hovercycle would be like – maybe like riding the rocky bus to Quinn – maybe like flying an astrocraft to a place where atmosphere runs low and gravity is only a legend. Keith didn't know what he expected the ride to be like – but it wasn't it.

Driving a hoverbike was, apparently, smooth. Slick – like trying to get a hold of water, or trying to get a grip on a pearl. It was receptive – much more than Keith thought – to movement, and the slightest shift made it lean sharply, which meant Keith had to be stable on it, his center of gravity pressed forward at all times.

Shiro had barely opened the metal gate before Keith was flying out, levitating over the desert and bringing about a storm of sand and dust all around him. It was almost impossible to take notice of anything Shiro was saying to guide him – not because of the noise of the bike; it was almost completely silent – but because of the rush of it as Keith was getting the shape of the hems and the reins of the bike, as he was getting to know its limits. He was objectively bad at it, but for once, he didn't mind being bad at something, especially not when Shiro was guiding him through it.

Keith watched the sky darken as he rocketed through the Nevada desert. He didn't know what he expected driving the bike would be – but whatever it was, reality was _much_ more awesome.

 

March 11 th , 5:50 p.m. 

Keith showed up to class the next day.

He didn't know how or why – it certainly wasn't the sense of responsibility or selflessness – and yet he found himself in a half-vacant cafeteria, eating a dripping jelly sandwich he made in a hurry, and making his way to the tarmac.

Maybe intentionally, maybe unintentionally, Keith ended up on the opposite end of the row from Lance. And it wasn't the first time – after their kiss, they never spoke. Keith wondered if his approach, to keep his mental silence, was actually meant to keep him from seeing Lance. It was too late to take it back now, though, and somehow, that felt a lot worse than arguing with Lance, or being away from him during winter break.

In Iverson's class, Keith and all of the other students were taken straight to the gym for physical training – there, he picked the furthest corner from Lance, who in turn picked the furthest corner from him, partnering up with Yulia Polak for one of Iverson's exercises and laughing from afar; while Keith did the task alone.

After that, Iverson took them back up the smooth stairs to show them some new jets Galaxy Garrison had gotten. He didn't lead them into any of them, though – didn't fly them to the edge of the earth again, and Keith was glad for that. He didn't know what he would do if he would end up sitting next to Lance again, if Lance's soft hand found its way into his again. He didn't know how he would be able to keep running from his thoughts, from Lance, after that.

That same day, while Keith was alone in his room, textbook in hand, there were two knocks at his door. He would like to say he was wary when he opened the door, cautious – but he wasn't. He slid the door open all at once, so hard he was surprised when it didn't snap, and red-cheeked when he didn't find Lance behind it.

“Pidge,” he mumbled, unable to cover his surprise.

Pidge had both of her arms crossed, and her expression was something serious, but unreadable. “Get your coat,” she said, solemn. “We're going for a walk.”

 

March 11 th , 5::52 p.m.

Pidge didn't say another word until they were way off Garrison grounds, walking down the empty highway, and that reminded him a lot of the night she dragged him to that junior party into a stranger's summer house at the start of the school year. It felt like ages ago, like it was someone else's memory, not Keith's. The sky was beginning to get a plum tint at the edges when Pidge spoke up.

“Keith, I won't pretend to know what's going on,” she said, looking forward at the sun setting behind a thick bundle of gray clouds. “I don't – but I know something is. You stopped showing up for breakfast, Lance spends way too long in our dorm, you barely talk to me and Hunk, and you don't talk to each other.”

Keith sighed. “Pidge –“

“Listen,” she cut him off. “I don't know what's going on between you and Lance. But whatever stupid thing it is this time, you're gonna deal with it. The both of you. I believe this is your station.” She firmly planted herself on the ground, tilting her chin.

Only after Keith looked around – only after he saw a far bus barreling towards them, did he understand.

“No, you don't get it,” he muttered. “I can't.”

“And I can't go back to the Garrison until I see you lean against a bus window,” Pidge declared, her face stone-cold serious. “If it isn't this bus, it's the next, or the next one after that, or the one after that. But by the looks of the sky, this one's your best shot to get to Quinn _not_ drenched to the core.”

Keith felt his jaw shift. On his right, the bus was a moment away from arriving at the station and opening its doors with a hiss. On his left, Pidge was burning holes into his skull with her eyes. Above the two of them, it began drizzling, a steady beat of thin drops from gray clouds.

When the bus finally came to a stop before them, Pidge was already grinning victoriously, tiny raindrops clinging to her frizzy hair.

In retrospect, Keith knew it was impossible to avoid Lance forever.

 

March 11 th , 6:44 p.m.

Keith didn't seem to catch up to reality until it was too late, until the blurry, wet bus windows were replaced by the welcome sign of Quinn, Nevada, and Keith's warmth and comfort replaced by breaths of steam and a cold that made his teeth shake.

He felt paralyzed making his way through the main plaza, into the side street, to Pizza Galaxy, as if it was his first time, as if he was lost.

In a sense, Keith really was lost, but he kept going anyway.

As it turned out, Lance was put on waiter duty that day, rolling around in his colorful skates across the smooth starry sky painted on the ground with a tray in his hand, bringing drinks and pizza boxes to happy buyers with a flashy smile under a drape of teal stars. He almost bumped into Keith when Keith came to stand over some planet's moon, clutching to his empty tray and squeakingly stopping before him.

Now that Keith was in front of him, he didn't know what to say – and it was so easy to get lost in Lance's honey skin when the faux stars above did it so good – but he forced himself to open his mouth and stutter his words out anyway, fingers jittery.

“Can we talk?” he said, voice low, and every word drew a different cloud of white steam into the air.

Lance looked like a deer caught in the headlights, but he nodded carefully, releasing a slow, white breath. Then, he skated away, into the building.

He must have been gone for no longer than a minute, but those were sixty seconds of agonizing torture for Keith, until Lance showed up again, wearing his sneakers instead of rollerskates, his army-green jacket tied to his waist.

Then they walked – a somewhat-sickly, slow pace, every step drawn out. Keith kept his hands in his pockets, held in fists. Lance was flinging his yo-yo up and down, up and down, steady motions. Neither of them said anything, and it felt like time was pressing more and more into Keith to say something, and so was his mind, desperately trying to get him to form sentences on his lips.

The worst thing about their silence was, that it, too, conveyed something.

Then, out of the blue, it happened. Unexpectedly, wonderfully. Beautiful, just like Lance had promised months ago.

Snow. Blissful snow, in _March_.

At first, Keith thought it was rain – but the harsh tap of rain wasn't beating on the ground, and the tiny droplets of precipitation were soft as they fell on him, almost unnoticeable, nothing at all like the prodding of rain, and they weren't droplets at all – at least until they spent long enough settled on Keith's skin.

“No way.” Lance giggled, looking around, zealous. “Keith! It's snowing!”

Keith laughed, and his breath created a puff of white. “I've never seen snow before,” he said, voice as soft as the tiny particles falling on him.

It was true. It never snowed on the Garrison's side of Nevada, and he had never seen it while living in Texas as a kid. It felt like flying an astrocraft after Keith only studied their theory – new, and refreshing. It seemed impossible to Keith that snow and rain were both made up of the same thing. Rain was all demanding, strong. Snow was gentle, more like sparks of fire or particles of dust, than its counterpart.

“First time to everything,” Lance said, then stuck out his tongue in a poor attempt to catch snowflakes.

Keith took his hands out of his pockets and tried to catch them on his fingertips, instead. Lance frowned at that, swatting his hands away.

“ _Naht lahk that,_ ” he said, tongue still out. “ _Lahk that._ ” he pointed at his open mouth, somehow managing to get it to form a grin.

Keith raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What's the point?”

Lance rolled his eyes, then pointed at his tongue with more urgency. Keith succumbed at that, for some reason, sighing and opening his mouth to the skies.

The falling snow looked like a tunnel, like a beam laser from an old sci-fi film. When it fell on Quinn's warm strings of light, it instantly became droplets around the light bulbs, and that sight was breathtaking on its own.

At first, Keith felt ridiculous, but then he began chasing after the snowflakes, getting rewarded by the occasional snowflake that landed on his tongue and turned to water, and by many snowflakes that missed his mouth and dotted his face.

It was a childish experience, but a magical one. Lance laughed, and it sounded ridiculous with his tongue out. Then Keith laughed, and that didn't sound any better. And then both of them laughed, and ran around and around, chasing after snowflakes with their tongue out, a bizarre show to the empty shopping center of Quinn, the only witness to their craziness being the snow itself.

Then, while chasing the snow, they bumped into each other. Lance seized Keith by his shoulders, while Keith held onto Lance's upper arms, and that was bad.

It was bad because they both knew when they had held each other like that last, and what happened next. Their eyes were a watercolor palette of guilt and hurt when they met.

Lance removed his hands first, followed instantly by Keith, but their eyes remained locked. Keith's chest felt heavy.

“I'm sorry,” Keith said quietly, quieter than the snow, though he didn't know what he was sorry for.

“No,” Lance rejected, looking away. “I'm sorry. This is – this is all on me. I'm sorry.”

“No, screw this,” Keith protested, frustration seeping into his voice. “Neither of us should feel sorry. I hate that we feel sorry about this, Lance.”

“Do you think I like it?” Lance said, brows knitted together. He looked like he was suffering, and Keith found himself wanting nothing but to hug him as hard as he was clenching his fists at that moment. “I hate it, Keith. I hate that we have to be walking on eggshells around each other. It's insane, and it's dumb. Why did we even do it, Keith? Why did we kiss?”

“I wish I knew!” Keith said, and his face felt numb with the particles of snow settling on them. “I don't – I don't have an answer for you. I don't know. and it scares me, and avoiding you scares me even more, and the fact that I can't stop thinking about this – about you – scares me the most. God, Lance – it scares me how much I want you.”

There was no way back after Keith threw that in the air. His hand shot up to his mouth on an instinct, fingernails clawing at his skin.

_Shit, shit, shit,_ his brain sang. _Air, air, air,_ his lungs pleaded.

His fingers were shaking on his lips.

Lance studied him for a moment, and Keith wished he could tear his eyes away from Lance's, because the pain was unbearable.

“You...” Lance whispered, then swallowed. “You want me?”

“I think that's obvious at this point,” Keith managed, voice dry, throat closed.

Lance studied him some more, blinking a few times. He had snowflakes coating the tips of his lashed, like drops of dew. Like still tears. “Why?” he asked at last.

“Because,” Keith found himself saying. “Because you're Lance-like. Because everything you do, you do originally, and you do good. Because you're beautiful when doing what you love. Because I can't stand to see your doe eyes sad. Because you like dancing, and philosophy, and _Killbot Phantasm_ , and because you're insanely smart. I like you because you're you. That's why...” his words faltered, breath hitching for a moment. It felt like both tension and the release of it when he spoke again. “That's why I can't forget about that kiss.”

Lance just stared at Keith for another moment. Then, he turned away. He opened his mouth, and instead of words came a broken laughter, and instead of that laughter, he began crying.

“Keith,” he said, voice quiet and serious and broken, blinking at the ground, his tears dropping to the earth like diamonds. “I – I still don't know why we kissed. But I'd like to. I'd like to find out.”

He looked up at Keith, and Keith had to bite his lip to refuse letting tears well up his sight. He was too dazed to think, more frozen than the snow, more solid than the ground.

“I...” he found himself choking out, a whisper in a voice that wasn't his own. He didn't want to be saying it – every muscle in his body ached and begged him not to – but he had to. It was unfair to Lance, to both of them, if we wouldn't. “I'm – I'm not like you. I'm... _fire_. I act before I think, I can't keep more than a few people in my life, and those that I can, I let down. I don't want to do that to you.”

“How can you say that?” Lance asked, smiling kindly despite his tears, a gesture that Keith thought was the very essence of him. “You're Keith. That means everything you do is Keith-like. And that means – you're passionate, and strong, and resilient. How could you ever let me down by being yourself?”

When Keith didn't say anything, Lance took the liberty to keep going. "You're different from me, yeah," he said. "But you're a good different. You're the fire to my water. The eye-roll to my cliches. And... even if I can't understand everything that's going on with us right now, I want to figure it out. With you. If you want to."

It was a torture to hear Lance say that, like a jab at Keith's chest. Nevada really was insidious, and Keith would rather believe it was some kind of mirage instead of reality. Somehow, that would have been easier. Somehow, that would have made sense, much more sense than Lance saying those things ever will.

Keith let out a shuddered breath, waves of cold vapor quick to follow in the frozen air. “What if we kiss again?” he asked, like holding out proof to be used as a needle against Lance's utopian bubble – and it was utopian; ethereal, heavenly, too good to be true. “What if it tears us apart again? What – what if we won't be able to recover from it this time?”

Lance closed the distance between them in two steps. He came close, closer than they were when they bumped into each other's shoulders, too close for Keith's mind to run properly. It took Keith back, made him freeze, numbed all his instincts to run, to hide, to even breathe normally. Keith could feel Lance's own soft breaths on his lips, warm.

“I'm going to kiss you again,” he whispered, his eyes unsettled, unfocused. “So you'll see it would be okay.”

Lance's gaze kept falling on Keith's lips, and that made him feel like he was snow on the verge of melting. When his eyes met Keith's, Keith really did feel like he was dissolving into mist. It was uncontrollable, and that was beyond scary for him. It was terrifying.

“What if –“ Keith never finished his words.

Lance found his lips, and he found his cheeks with his warm palms, and he found him where their chests pressed together, and found the beat of his heart. Lance, by kissing him under warm fairy lights and soft petals of snow, found Keith, and he didn't let him go, not even when they broke apart, still too soon, Keith's eyes hanging desperately onto Lance's.

Lance, in response, smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling thinly into snowflakes. They didn't hold tears anymore. His smile was sweet, and delicate, and unfair, being away from Keith's lips.

“No _what if_ s,” Lance huffed. “Just us. Yeah?”

Keith stared at him for a long moment. Suddenly, he wanted it to be anything but a vision, anything but a fleeting thing that would escape between his fingers as soon he got a hold on it, whatever _it_ – the gentle thing blooming between Lance's heart and his – was. So Keith nodded, because what else could he do, when Lance had every part of him right from the beginning.

He nodded, then he whispered, like a secret, “Just us.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so what if it's us? what if it's uS AND ONLY US,,, AND WHAT CAME BEFORE WON'T COUNT ANYMORE,,,, OR MATTER


	29. Lost and Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you didn't think stuff was gonna go smoothly from here did you? wink wonk

Lost and Found

 

March 11 th , 9:44 p.m.

The next few things happened in the span of a few hours, but they happened very quickly for Keith.

First, Lance ran back to Pizza Galaxy to get his things, taking Keith with him on his quest. This time, he held him by the hand, and it didn't seem to occur to him to ever let go. That was new; then again, so was most everything else between them.

Then, the bus came, covered in a thin blanket of snow, leaving them on their empty road, giggling. Keith didn't know what they were giggling about – maybe a joke he had forgotten on the way back to the Garrison – but there they were, laughing their asses off in a dark Nevada.

When they were back on Galaxy Garrison grounds, covered in dots of raindrops and fuzzy snow, enveloped in the warmth of the barracks, they didn't seem to know what to do, standing idly before Keith's dorm door, neither of them moving.

And then it was Keith's turn to kiss Lance – _finally_ – not realizing himself that he was until his eyes fluttered shut and Lance began reaching for the door behind him. He couldn't open it, of course, and Keith had to awkwardly slither his keys out of his pocket, breaking the kiss.

Lance only laughed at that.

He was a creature of honey and laughter, Keith thought. He wanted to kiss the laughter out of him.

Then the door slid open with a _whoosh_ , and Keith did exactly that.

They fell together, laughing, against Keith's soft bed. Keith didn't know what he was doing, his mind turning into one big scribble with the touch of Lance's warm, chapped lips, but Lance was smiling into the kiss, and he was smiling back, so he figured he must be doing _something_ right.

They fell asleep like that, feeling warmth and sweetness and tiredness, forehead to forehead, lips touching lips, huffed breaths and wild hair. It was tender, and right.

It was home.

 

March 12 th , 1:21 a.m.

Keith, in some part of him that remained awake despite the thick blanket of sleep lying heavy on him, was hoping to be woken up by Lance's lips. He didn't know where he wanted them to be – maybe his lips again, or maybe someplace new, like his cheek, or his jaw, or his neck.

Instead, he was woken up by his cries. Lance was lying right next to him, humming in discomfort, muttering words that weren't English. His forehead gleamed, reflecting the faint moonlight filtering through Keith's window, and strands of his hair were clinging to it.

“No,” Lance mumbled, drawn out. “ _No te vayas. No me dejes._ Maik, no!”

“Lance,” Keith whispered. Then, when he kept squirming and panting, Keith repeated, tone urgent, “ _Lance_.”

Lance's eyes opened all at once. He remained there, lying eerily still for a second longer, then shot up all at once to sit at the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands, like a prayer.

Keith sat up a moment after, carefully lifting up a hand to place on Lance's shoulder. His shirt, a gray-blue baseball tee, appeared pale under the moonlight, and so did the nape of his neck, soaked by sweat. Before Keith could even put a hand on his shoulder, Lance leaped to his feet.

“This was a bad idea,” he said, his voice hauntingly low.

“It was just a dream,” Keith managed to say, stretching his hand out and grabbing the tips of Lance's fingers, pressing. Lance didn't pull away. He didn't press back. He just stood there, still, and that was endlessly scary to Keith.

“I – I have to shower,” Lance muttered, voice still coated with sleep. “Can I use your shower?”

“Lance –“

“Keith, can I use your shower?” he repeated, back arching straight.

Keith stared at him for a moment, watching the faint outline of his back rise and fall rapidly at the rhythm of his breaths. “Of course,” he whispered, and Lance didn't wait a second before springing into the bathroom and locking the door behind.

Keith grabbed one of his few T-shirts, a black shirt turned gray, along with his red coat, and stacked them on top of each other on his swivel chair. Then, he sat back on his bed. The plan was to wait until Lance left the shower, then ask him about his dream, or just hold him in his arms until they had to get up for another day – that had seemed like a pretty good plan to Keith – but in actuality, the subtle stream of the shower behind the wall hummed Keith right back to sleep.

When after a while Keith felt the ghost of a kiss on his forehead, he wasn't sure if it was Lance or if it was just a dream of his own.

 

March 12 th , 8:11 a.m.

Keith was sitting by an empty cafeteria table in an even emptier cafeteria, early to rise, when Lance suddenly plopped onto the seat across from him.

“Sorry if I freaked you out last night,” he said, awkwardly tugging at the sleeves of his shirt.

It was way too cold to be wearing just a shirt, and Keith had to resist the urge to shake his orange uniform's jacket off and hand it to Lance.

“I... hoped I wouldn't do that,” Lance continued, voice a hush now. “It just – it happens sometimes.”

“You were having a nightmare,” Keith said, speaking as low as Lance. “You said your brother's name.”

Lance swallowed, then nodded, then repeated, “It happens sometimes.”

He was now looking down at the table, but Keith couldn't let it go just yet.

“You said it was a bad idea,” he said.

“I was half-asleep, Keith,” Lance said, shrugging.

“No, but –“

"Pidge and Hunk," Lance hissed, cocking an eyebrow at his left. He was right – they had entered the cafeteria, inaudibly laughing and talking.

That took Keith aback – he didn't get to think how to begin to deal with their friends yet, and by the looks of it, Lance didn't either. Did they tell them? What would they even say? Were they dating, going out, boyfriends? Was there any difference between those? Keith didn't know, and it was too late to figure out anyway.

“We keep low, okay?” Lance said, breaking his unsettled train of thought. “We'll talk about it later.”

But like Keith knew Lance, it was likely that that _later_ was actually a _never_.

 

March 12 th , 11:33 a.m.

Between Iverson's class and Mr. Harris', Lance pulled Keith aside by the wrist, to beyond the cafeteria and through an overly lit corridor to an empty bathroom.

He kicked every stall's door to ensure they were alone, then closed the bathroom door, leaving them closed inside a gray box. Keith wasn't claustrophobic, but something felt off about it. Something was wrong.

Lance turned from the door to face Keith, then smiled brightly. And before Keith could study his face, trace his lips with his eyes, Lance cupped his face and kissed him. First, on the mouth – then, on the cheek – and lastly, on the forehead. He let the last one linger, let his lips flutter over Keith's skin, and that woke some deep, sad stir inside of Keith.

“What's wrong?” Keith heard himself mutter.

“What, can't I show affection for my favorite boy?” Lance raised a brow, challenging.

“Is that what I am?” Keith asked, hushed. “Your favorite boy?”

“Of all the boys in all the world,” Lance said, and his smile turned sad. Then he planted another kiss on Keith's forehead, and left the bathroom running.

Only too late Keith noticed an extra weight in the pocket of his jacket.

Only too late did he check, only for his hand to fish out a smooth, blue piece of plastic.

Only too late Keith left the bathroom running, Lance's yo-yo clutched hard in his hand.

Too late – always too late.

 


	30. The Stars Guiding You Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time 4 fluff!!!!

The Stars  Guiding You Home

 

March 12 th , 4:23 p.m.

Keith was gliding, _flying_ across the Nevada landscape.

On his sides – nothing but blotches of red earth, molding into mountains in the distance.

In front of him, his only goal – Lance.

And behind him – Pidge and Hunk holding on for dear life.

Was it ever going to get easier, chasing after Lance?

 

March 12 th , 11:37 a.m.

The door of the tech lab swung open with a metal sling, one that Keith was almost sure would leave a scar on the steel door.

He was panting – he didn't care. Sets of eyes, most of them framed by shiny glasses, looked up at him from bright computer screens.

“Pidge,” he managed, lungs burning, throat dry. “Katie Holt.”

From the far back, Pidge rose to her feet, and carried all of the students' eyes on her all the way out of the classroom.

“Lance is in trouble,” he blurted the moment the door closed behind them. “Give me your dorm keys. I think – I'm scared he might be doing something really stupid right now.”

Pidge furrowed her brow. “No way,” she said, determined. “I'm coming with.”

And so they went, running in compact hallways, their shoes squeaking with every sharp turn. When Pidge slid her barrack keys in, the door lightly slid ajar.

“He left the room unlocked?” she frowned, then pushed the door completely open, and every trace of anger washed away from her face in a flash. “Holy shit,” she whispered.

“Idiot,” Keith muttered, his fist already hitting the doorframe as much as he could take.

The room before them was a mess – clothes scattered, walls bare, and nothing belonging to Lance around.

“Holy shit,” Pidge repeated.

 

March 12 th , 11:40 a.m.

“Get Hunk,” Keith said, eyes still fixed on the chaotic room in front of him. “Meet me in the parking lot.”

Then he left running – first, in dark hallways, past the trophy cabinet, and to the satellite communication room. For someone who didn't know what he was doing, Keith remained fairly focused.

As expected, Shiro wasn't there, probably off to eat lunch – but his bag was. Keith rummaged through it, clawing at all the pockets with both of his hands, until he ultimately found it – a pair of clinking keys – and ran as fast as his legs would carry him down the stairs, too fast for his brain to catch up, through corridors he only vaguely remembered, and to the parking lot.

Hunk and Pidge were already waiting for him when he got there, and all Keith had to do was scan the rows of parked vehicles for Shiro's hovercraft, and drive away. The first part was easy enough – Shiro's decade-old red Honda bike was huge, standing apart from the crowd of all-standard American cars, all perfectly round and either black, white, or gray. Keith pulled three helmets out of its compartment, handed two to Pidge and Hunk who eyed them cautiously.

Then he had to actually fly them somewhere, and that proved to be the more difficult task. He slid the keys in, turning the ignition on, then, the moment they were all sitting down – gave it all he had.

Both Hunk and Pidge were screaming when he managed to scrape and grind against the parking lot walls on the way out, and their cries didn't dry out until the moment they were safely out of Galaxy Garrison territory, flying over the empty roads and red soil.

“Will you please let us know why we're ditching on a fucking motorcycle now?” Pidge urged, breathless.

"And can you please lower the speed?" Hunk asked, sounding nauseated. "Riding one of these things is dangerous enough as is."

“Look, I get that this is shitty,” Keith said, his fingers tightening around the handlebars, the desert wind drying his lips. “But we _have_ to do this. For Lance.”

“Lance?” Hunk said, confused. “What happened to Lance?”

Keith turned to look at Pidge over his shoulder. “You didn't tell him?”

The hovercycle started to waver suddenly, accompanied by Hunk and Pidge's screams, and Keith had to turn back around.

“Eyes on the road, for fuck's sake!” Pidge breathed, voice shaky. “And tell Hunk what, Keith? I don't know any more about what's going on than him! Will you _please_ just let us know what's going on with Lance?”

Keith was silent for a moment, watching the world pass by him through the scratched, dirty glass of the helmet. His chest was aching. He was pushed into a corner, and it was too late to back down.

He let out a breath through his mouth. “He's freaking out,” Keith said solemnly. “And I think – he's going home. To Cuba. _Fuck_.”

“So this means –“ Hunk was quiet for a moment, then, “We're going to _Vegas?_ ”

“The international airport he traveled through last time was there,” Pidge confirmed. “Okay, so he's going home. But why was he even freaking out in the first place?”

“Because of me,” Keith blurted, swallowing hard. “Because I... overwhelmed him.”

Hunk and Pidge were silent for a moment, and Keith had to use all of his willpower to resist the temptation of looking back.

“Well – why?” Pidge spoke quietly, still puzzled.

Keith sighed in frustration. “I didn't do it on purpose – I –“

“I don't think that's it,” Hunk said. “I mean, you're friends!”

“You're _best_ friends,” Pidge corrected. “I don't think anything you could do would drive him to –“

“Lance and I kissed!” Keith yelled into the desert, his grip feeling suddenly shaky on the motorcycle, his stomach suddenly sick. The quiet was deafening, too painful to bear, so he continued. “We weren't friends, we... we were something else. I don't know. I don't even know if that was just in my head or if he saw it that way, too. And it was all very new, and I guess that freaked him out. And now he's probably at McCarran International Airport buying tickets to Cuba, if he's not on the fucking plane already. I just need to get to him before he blows all his school money on a flight ticket. And... I need you guys to be with me. I – I don't know if he'll listen to me.”

The silence stretched, it stretched more than the whole Nevada desert stretched before Keith's eyes, stretched more than his skin on his white knuckles where he gripped the handlebar for dear life.

Then – “Oh.”

It was Pidge. She put a hand on Keith's shoulder – Keith knew it was her because her hand was tiny compared to Hunk's, which a moment later was placed on his other shoulder.

“Keith, I think I speak for Pidge too when I say that we sort of thought so. And, that we love you and support you no matter what,” Hunk said, patting his shoulder. “And you shouldn't blame yourself for Lance running off – feelings tend to get really confusing. But we'll be right there for you, for both of you.”

“Yeah,” Pidge agreed. “Besides, look at what you're doing right now – you're crossing the desert for him, you sap. And on a hoverbike, no less. Whatever happened, you're gonna fix it.”

With all his heart Keith thanked his friends, and with all his heart he hoped they were right. What else could he do?

 

March 12 th , 13:31 p.m.

After over an hour-and-a-half of driving, countless screams from Hunk, and one bathroom break for Pidge at a gas station, the legendary welcome sign of Las Vegas – titled “ _Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas_ ” – rolled by the road, and it was dodging city traffic from there on out, colorful lights guiding their way through the city roads.

Keith did it badly – after all, he never practiced driving anywhere that wasn't an empty wasteland – but he assumed he did it well enough to not raise suspicion by the cops. He did get annoyed honks from other vehicles floating by, and Pidge made sure to flip the bird on every single one of them all the way to the airport. In that moment Keith swore to never look down on the earthbound bus to Quinn ever again.

As expected – the airport was busy, having no parking spots to spare, so Keith just ended up parking by the bicycle stand, something he was certain he was going to get in trouble for – if not by the Las Vegas police, by Shiro – but he was way beyond impatient by that time, his legs somehow both numb and aching, and so he grabbed the keys and ran inside anyway.

The airport was a joke at Keith's expense – multiple ways to go, hundreds of flights on a massive screen, and thousands and thousands of people, all trying to get somewhere. Keith wanted to scream just from that vision, but Hunk put a hand on his shoulder.

“I'll look for him in the check-in stands,” he said. “Pidge, ask in the info booth – get them to call him over the speakers if it comes to that. You look for the lines around the terminals for Cuba. That's – three, four, and five. Go!”

They all split up running at once.

Keith got as close as he could – making his way between people, under blue tape working as fence between the many lines, turning people around by their shoulders in hopes of finding Lance – but it was impossible to get to any of the terminals. It was luggage, then passport checks, and registration of flight tickets – none of which Keith had.

He just stood there, speechless and breathless, feeling all too much. He looked to his right, and managed to catch Hunk disappointedly shaking his head. He looked left, and Pidge was arguing with someone inside the information booth, appearing just as miserable.

It was over. That was it. Shoulder bumps and light shoves pushed Keith out of the way to the terminals, out of the crowd, and he felt like he was really going to scream, that he really might do it, and force security to carry him out. And then he thought that, no, he actually felt much more like crying.

And then – like sunlight filtering through dark clouds – out of the corner of his eye, Keith noticed a hooded figure. The hood was white, but the jacket was green, army green, khaki green, a green that nearly made Keith burst into tears right then and there, as he made a run for it across the airport hall to the ticket booth.

There were so many things Keith wanted to tell Lance, so many things going through his head, but nothing came out of his mouth once he was really in front of him.

“Lady, I'm telling you, I've got enough income! Money, insurance, whatever you want – I've got it all. Just give me a freaking plane ticket!” he banged his fists on the counter.

Keith couldn't hear what the person behind the booth had to say, but it couldn't have been positive, because then Lance made a defensive gesture, stepping away from the booth slowly.

And then he turned to Keith.

Keith was found dumbstruck in front of him, his eyes immediately clinging to Lance's desperate blue ones. They looked dark gray under the shade of his hood, like stormy seas.

_Thank god_ , Keith thought.

“You _fucking_ dumbass,” he found himself saying.

Lance sighed before him, his whole body drooping like a wilted flower. “I didn't expect you to get it,” he said.

“You know what? I don't. I just don't,” Keith admitted, taking two steps forward until he was square in front of Lance. “It doesn't change the fact that you can't just leave. Just blow all your school savings on a plane ticket home and leave.”

“Keith –“

“No, fuck that. You can't just kiss me, and leave. It doesn't work that way.” Keith's words became more broken with every syllable spoken, his throat betraying him.

“Keith, shut up, people are –“

But Keith refused to listen. “Do you have any idea how _worried_ I've been, how –“

"Well, boo-fucking-hoo!" Lance shook his head, so fast his hood dropped back, revealing watery eyes. "Did it ever cross your mind that it wasn't all peaches and cream for me? Did it ever cross your mind that what we're doing – whatever we're doing – isn't a universally okay thing to do? God, Keith – I'm an only boy in a Latine family – people might expect certain things of me, whether they know it or not, and I can't outrun that.

I don't know how they'll react to me liking a guy, okay? I know that's horrible to say, but that's the truth. That's all I think about, all I _dream_ about – about how disappointed they could be if they find out. So yeah, I ran, but if you wanted to get an apology, you better find someone who's sorry."

Keith blinked, taken aback. They were getting glances from people, coming and going, different passports in their hands. Lance was holding one, too – it was royal blue, with gold lettering. How could Keith have been so blind? How could he have been so selfish?

Lance's words echoed in his mind, senseless, numbing. _That's all I think about, all I_ dream _about_. He remembered what Lance said the previous night after he woke up from that nightmare, after calling his brother's name – he said, " _this was a bad idea_ ”.

Keith felt a wetness on his face, and it took him too long to realize he was crying.

Lance winced at that, eyebrows furrowing. “Shit, no –“

Keith ignored him and swiped his tears away with the back of his hand, rough. “Your family should be proud,” he said quietly. “I don't know them. I don't know if they would be. But they should. All of them. Your brother, too. All of them, Lance.”

Lance stared at him for a moment longer, then ran into his arms. They looked like total idiots there, crying hugged in a busy airport – but they also looked just like every other parting couple, which meant that nobody was looking at them but them, and that was strangely a comfort.

“Lance, I never meant to –“ Keith mumbled on Lance's hoodie.

“It's okay,” Lance hushed. “I'm okay. We're okay.”

“I was just – you scared me,” Keith whispered. “I didn't – I don't want you to leave like that. I thought I – I thought it was me you ran from. I guess we were both freaked out.”

“It's okay,” Lance repeated. “We're together now.”

Keith drew back from the hug. Lance's eyes didn't hold tears anymore. “Are we together now?” he asked him.

Lance nodded seriously, then grabbed one of Keith's hands. With Keith's free hand, he dug Lance's yo-yo out of his jacket pocket, placing it firmly inside his hand. They would have stayed like that forever, standing with their hands intertwined – if it wasn't for Hunk and Pidge making their entrance.

“Well, well, well,” Pidge said, crossing her arms. “Are my ears ringing or are those wedding bells I'm hearing?”

“I forgot to mention Pidge and Hunk are here,” Keith said, but Lance wrapped his arms around his waist and nuzzled his face on his shoulder so that his hair tickled Keith's neck.

"Please," Lance said. "Nothing has changed. Except for our levels of PDA, maybe." and he proceeded to litter a rain of kisses on Keith's shoulder and collar, much to Pidge and Hunk's protests.

“Seriously,” Hunk said. “We're really happy for you guys.”

“But we're going to pick on you non-stop,” Pidge added. “But we're really happy for you guys!”

“Yeah, well, you win some, you lose some. In any case, I'm really happy for us guys, too,” Lance said, then planted a kiss right on Keith's cheek.

_They were together_ , Keith thought.

Maybe it really was okay.

 


	31. The Self

The Self

 

March 23 rd , 10:44 p.m.

They were playing Scrabble on Shiro's living room carpet. It was a peaceful sunday, as peaceful as it could get with the underlying stress of study, Shiro's grounding policy, and on top of that, the Nevada weather.

After Keith brought Shiro's beloved motorcycle back from the airport incident, scratched and empty of fuel, it was either explaining where he went with it, or answering for the damage with punishment. Keith, of course, chose the latter – and Shiro gave him the task of learning how to drive the hovercraft every day, and taking it to refuel after. As a bonus punishment, Shiro made him take it to a far garage and watch as it got fixed and repainted, which sounded interesting in theory, except it dragged on for hours, and drove Keith out of his mind with boredom.

Shiro wasn't all that mad to begin with – only concerned for Keith's safety – but after he made Keith pay for his crimes with an everlasting torture, he was pleased, smiling smugly at Keith whenever he would return to Shiro's living room covered in black stains, courtesy of the hovercraft.

So now it was peaceful in Shiro's home – he had put noodles cooking in a pot, which made his whole house smell delicious, and the radio was playing an old song quietly to their game. Peaceful.

Shiro looked thoughtful, his eyebrows drawn together, studying the mostly-empty game board. "I will add to your _A_ to make _AM_.”

“I will add to your AM to make...” Keith's voice faltered.

He looked down at his hands for a moment. His palms were holding a bunch of scrabble pieces. Peaceful.

Then it hit him like a storm, all at once, ridiculously random and yet entirely right, like scrambled letters forming a sentence. Or maybe like a sentence that was always there, that Keith just hadn't noticed until then, until it was peaceful enough for him to read it.

“I'm gay,” Keith said.

There was a pause. Then he looked up at Shiro. Shiro was looking back at him. They stared at each other for a moment.

Then both of them burst out laughing.

They laughed until tears formed in their eyes. Laughed until the words on the Scrabble board wobbled out of place. Laughed for what seemed like hours.

Eventually, they calmed. Then, Shiro nodded, still smiling.

“I'm glad you told me,” he said, and he looked prouder than Keith could ever hope for. Not pleased, or smug. Proud, really proud.

Keith nodded back at him. “Me, too,” he said. “Even though I... only figured it out now, kind of.”

Shiro laughed. “I'm happy that you did. Did you tell me now because you didn't have any words?”

“No,” Keith denied, then sighed, his whole body dropping. “Yes.”

“Well, ' _am_ ' is already placed, and ' _I_ ' and ' _gay_ ' don't fit the board,” Shiro said, pushing the pool of letters for Keith to use, “so you'll have to change some of your letters. But hey – I'll give you some bonus points for sharing!”

“Shut up,” Keith mumbled, grumpily switching his letters for new ones.

He was going to think about that, about being gay, for a while; but before that, he was going to hug Shiro – and even before _that_ , Keith planned on beating him at Scrabble.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> take a shot every time you wanted keith to come out to shiro. oh just me? ok


	32. Fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for homophobia (derogatory speech)

Fools

 

April 1 st , 7:30 a.m.

After what happened at the airport, Keith wouldn't keep away from Lance.

He held his hand when no one was looking, made him company on his work days in Pizza Galaxy, and was his big spoon whenever Lance would sneak into his dorm to sleep. Pidge and Hunk, of course, teased them relentlessly – but neither of them minded, and every time they would, Keith would earn a shower of kisses from Lance – or his fingers intertwined in Keith's, if they were in a particularly crowded area.

Keith came out to all of them, one by one – which wasn't that big of a shocker. Surprisingly, even to him, he unintentionally left Lance to the end of the coming out list, only telling him one night when they were walking back down an empty road after spending a day in Pizza Galaxy's patio.

“I'm gay,” Keith had said.

“Cool,” Lance replied. “I – I like the word bi. I mean, for myself. Because I kind of like everybody.”

“Nice,” Keith said. “I like it.”

“And I like you,” Lance said, planting a smooch on his cheek. “Boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend,” Keith repeated. “I like that, too.”

Soon enough, April came, a fresh page on the calendar that Keith had been eager to flip.

On the first day of April, Keith with Lance by his side, just like everybody else, ran to the charts. These ones had the notes from Iverson's flight test, which meant they were real game-changers on the matter of who was going to be a mere background dancer, and who got to fly up front on the air show. Keith didn't know when he started to want it so bad, to be part of the main team, but by the time he and Lance were running through hallways to see their place, he figured they both wanted it just as much.

But something unexpected happened – instead of a crowd of cadets blocking the way and the sight of the chart, everyone clogging the path to the April charts turned to look at them, shaking Lance from his leftover sleepiness, and making Keith freeze in place.

His first thought was that they had somehow found out about Lance and him. That thought was discarded once he saw students clearing out, making way for them to freely walk to the charts, storm clouds parting open for the sun.

Lance surged forward immediately, pulling Keith by his wrist for it. His boots felt ten times heavier as he walked after Lance to the board.

And there it was, the reason for the staring looks from the prying eyes, the reason for the sea of people to part.

Under _Fighter Pilots_ , the first name on the list was Lance McClain.

 

April 1 st , 3:45 p.m.

The tables turned in Iverson's class – Andrea Sheinfield, who came in second after Lance, didn't wear her twisted, braggy smile at them any longer. Her eyes were cold and focused when she looked in Lance's direction, and Keith could practically see her recalculating, reevaluating his image in her mind. She didn't dare challenge them, steering away quietly. Somehow, that was just as scary to Keith.

Iverson was different, too – he didn't smile, Keith didn't think he would ever get there – but he nodded approvingly at Lance when they walked in the tarmac, and his expression had something of pride, which made Lance blush next to Keith.

Iverson took them on a tour on the Garrison's tarmac after that, quizzing them on the different jets and their different attributes, naming a list of the pros and cons of each. The air felt a little lighter after all of their first flight tests were over, but some new tension hung still in the air.

Everyone wanted to prove themselves, to sit inside a cockpit again, especially after seeing how Lance rocketed up the charts thanks to his flight test. Keith had a feeling Iverson knew that – that he purposefully let their competitive spirits simmer in the early spring air, so that they would look forward to the next test. It was almost a con, but Keith had to admit that it was working, as many hands kept getting raised to answer questions, in addition to Sheinfield's hand, though hers was still the first one to shoot up.

Lance never bragged about his triumph, not even when Mr. Harris, usually indifferent and emotionless, complimented him about it at the end of his class, before he proceeded to dump a heavy task of writing a final, multiple-page essay on the evolution of astrocraft engines and fueling on the already-grieving students.

Keith stayed in the Flight Theory classroom for a while after the class had ended, still taking his notes. Lance insisted on accompanying him, but Keith knew he was starving, and that the list of precise instructions Mr. Harris had them all write down for their final assignment would take a while to copy to the pages of Keith's notebook, and so he urged Lance to go eat his lunch without him. Lance practically flew out of the classroom.

Once he finished taking all of his notes, his hand cramping and fingers aching for help, he left – and was met out of the door with Andrea Sheinfield.

"Funny seeing you here," she said, crossing her arms and slipping right back into her trademark twisted grin.

“I was thinking just the opposite,” Keith muttered back, already leaving towards the cafeteria.

“You know what's also funny? The charts,” she continued, following his path. “Funny how McClain got first place. And how I got second. And how you got third. Maybe it's some sick April Fools joke.”

“Thanks for the recap,” Keith said, walking faster yet, “but I've already seen the scores myself.”

“You know, if things stay the same, we'll be the ones on that air show,” she said, voice playful. “Although, who knows – maybe after he's passed you once, McClain's gonna completely throw you off top three.”

“Stop,” Keith said, halting in place and turning on his heels to face Andrea. “Just stop. Whatever you're trying, it's not working. I'll be fine ending up at the bottom of the list with Lance in first. It seems to me like you're the one who wouldn't be.”

Then Keith turned back around. For his next steps forward, down the hallway, Andrea Sheinfield was silent. And then –

“You're fucking, aren't you?”

Keith froze – then turned slowly, muscles clenching painfully. Andrea's dark eyes were gleaming victoriously. She let out a huffed chuckle.

“Wow,” she said, and her sick self-satisfaction was clear as day in her voice. “You really are a thing, then. Man, that explains a _lot_. Tell me, which of you likes it in the ass?”

Keith was pinning her to a wall in two strides, forearm pressed against her throat. It wasn't strong enough to choke her or hurt her, but it was strong enough to get her to shut up, and it was enough for him at that moment. “Leave it –“ Keith pressed harder. “– the _fuck_ –“ his arm was shaking against Andrea. “Alone.”

She didn't try to stop him from walking away that time.

 

April 12 th , 5:42 p.m.

Spring break – if you could even call it that – arrived before Keith expected it to. It was nothing but two weeks without class, which meant both Iverson and Mr. Harris were relentless with their homework assignments, and that left nothing resembling a break for Keith.

Lance stayed in Galaxy Garrison for the break, too. He spent hours under the strings of teal stars in Pizza Galaxy, taking double shifts now that he wasn't occupied during school hours, and would crash exhausted on Keith's dorm bed. Keith didn't know where he found the strength to do Harris' work assignment after working so hard, but he did, until they had finished it, two thirds into spring vacation.

That night, instead of homework, Lance declared solemnly that they would watch a movie. They set up a makeshift, ragtag pillow fort, placing Lance's phone in front of them both to use as a screen, and though Keith didn't know which movie Lance was going to stream, once it began playing he felt like he should have seen it coming.

“The Matrix,” Keith mumbled, watching the titles roll. “You'd really get along with Shiro, you know. He likes those old movies.”

“This old movie is nothing like other old movies, mister,” Lance protested, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. “ _This_ one is a timeless masterpiece that raises questions about our whole existence and perception. It's like, Plato level stuff.”

And so they watched, Lance gasping at all of the plot twists even though he knew them by heart, reciting dialogue like a pro. The film was cooler than Keith remembered, but he wouldn't admit it to Lance, keeping nothing but a small smile on his face throughout the whole thing.

When it was done, Lance was the one to break the silence of the credit roll. “Do you really think I'd get along with Shiro? I mean, he _is_ Shiro.”

“He is,” Keith said. “And you would. You will – if you want to. I can bring you along sometime, when I go to his house.”

Lance smiled from ear to ear, his cheeks rising flushed. "I'd like that," he said. "And for the record, I think you'd get along with my family, too. Yeli in particular has a thing for motorbikes – hers is a ground ride, though. Jen minored in Chemistry – she hated every second of it – you can bond over that, too. Liz is a grumpy baby, so I think you'll make good friends with her as well. And my mom, well – she kind of loves everybody, so you're all set."

“Maybe one day,” Keith said.

“Maybe.” Lance nodded. “I'm going to tell them eventually, though. I mean, I want to. About being bi. About having a boyfriend. They're just going to have to deal with it.”

Keith intertwined their fingers, then planted a kiss on the back of Lance's hand. It was almost surreal, how far they've come.

Almost.

“Yeah,” Lance continued. “I'll take you to Cuba. We'll go shopping in Cuban _mercados_. Then, we'll go hang Christmas lights around the house – in my vision it's Christmas – and we'll dip knee-deep into the sea, and then we'll go eat in my favorite pizza place in the whole world – no offense to Pizza Galaxy. Yeah.”

“I'll look forward to it,” Keith said, shaking their joined hands, like a deal. Like a promise.

 

April 18 th , 9:12 a.m.

Iverson didn't waste any time.

Right after spring break was over, he got them to form a line again, and again proposed a challenge for all of them.

“Cadets, you have all come far,” he said. “You may view this test as your last of the year. You may also view it as a door – a door to redemption and to greatness. From today, to the end of the month, I will be testing your skills and ranking them – but I will be doing so from down here. It's time that you all, both metaphorically and not, take the wheel. I will hear you over the comms if necessary.

As you all know, these are the last notes to affect your overall score for junior year. I will register them only after all of your Flight Theory assignments are graded, for fairness' sake – from then on, it's only for math to decide who will be the three to fly in the front of the air show. All that being said – who wants to go first?”

As expected – Andrea Sheinfield's hand was raised first, her face wearing a braggy smile. Multiple other students lifted their hands, more and more by the second, and Keith was none of them.

Lance looked at him, eyebrows raised in question. Keith just shrugged. “I think I'm going to wait a little before jumping in,” he simply said.

“Good call.” Lance smiled, then linked their pinkies. It wasn't obvious – but it wasn't hidden either, a moment of silent communication between them, and Keith was washed over by an overwhelming sense of pride, that he couldn't be more grateful for.

 

April 27 th , 8:46 a.m.

Eventually, they did the test – both on the same day.

Lance went first, flying ever-gracefully, and Keith was torn between watching his beautiful performance and trying to peek into Iverson's notepad, on which he was writing rapidly without pause, over his shoulder. By the time Lance was landing, the whole class was chanting his name. _McClain, McClain, McClain_. Keith's eyes welled up just from seeing him stepping out of the astrocraft, shining, to those cheers.

Then Keith stepped up, and that time, he kept himself in check through the whole flight, never letting loose again, never losing control or sight of what was important. Flight was important, but so was safety, and he much preferred the latter.

That time around, Keith understood everything suddenly – if not for Iverson's insistence on building jets from paper and cardboard, he never would have come to understand, to respect, real astrocrafts the way he did now. Though Iverson was tough, uncompromising – and sometimes, Keith felt, needlessly cruel – he managed to plant in all of the fighter class the seeds of success in flight, and Keith could now reap the fruit of it. When he shook Iverson's hand after landing back on the tarmac, Keith could swear he saw the shadow of a smile on his face.

The class didn't cheer for him when he slowly dropped back to the ground, but he didn't care about the class' cheers anyway. The one person who was cheering was the one who mattered to him, and Lance was there to hug him tighter than ever when he stepped out, both drenched in sweat and adrenaline.

Slowly, the whole fighter class had put the final test behind them, and by the time may was just around the corner, they were all anticipating the results with held breaths.

Three days before the end of the month, Shiro came over to their lunch table, to everyone's surprise.

"Iverson wants to see you," he said, and even he sounded hesitant – looking first at Keith, then glancing at everyone else at the table.

Keith looked around the table, too, unsure, until Pidge kicked his leg under the table and Lance whispered, “ _Go!_ ”

So he went, uneasy, fingers twitching – to Iverson's office, where he was already waiting for him behind the desk.

“Keith Kogane,” he said – strangely smiling, really smiling now, a smile that left no place for doubt. “Please, have a seat.”

Keith did, cautiously, like the chair was going to spring some handcuffs and trap him in Iverson's bleak office forever.

“Do you know why I called you?” he asked, forming a tent with the pads of his fingers.

Keith crossed his arms. “No.”

“It's about the May charts,” Iverson hinted.

Keith shrugged, though his heart picked up its pace to twice as fast.

“I wanted to call all three of you,” he said. “All the top three.”

Keith straightened up slowly. “You mean –?”

“You came in second, Kogane,” Iverson said. “Congratulations. You'll be part of the main formation for this year's air show. You should be proud.”

Keith didn't feel proud. He didn't know what to feel at that moment, aside from being overwhelmed. But it was strangely good. A lot of things were, he was starting to realize.

“And Lance?” he asked. “Is he part of the main team, too?”

Iverson chuckled. “Well, I can't disclose –“

“I can't go without him,” Keith said. “I have to do this with him. I have to know.”

Iverson sighed, leaning back in his swivel chair and studying Keith with narrowed eyes. "Very well," he said. "He did pass. In fact, he's in first place. I was quite surprised at first."

“Good,” Keith said. Then, he got up for the door – except he paused, then turned back around before he could think it through. “You know what? Not good. With all due respect, _sir_ , you shouldn't have been surprised. Lance McClain is easily the best pilot in this whole building, and he earned that first place.

You know what he does every afternoon? He takes a _wheel_ bus to Quinn, Nevada, and serves pizzas. He works his ass off, and yet he still manages to get stellar grades and be the best pilot this place has seen. And you know why he works every afternoon? It's because you were surprised at first. It's because you, and your fellow big-named pilots forgot what it's like to have a small beginning. You didn't give him a scholarship, and so he has to work to be here, when you could easily all work for him. So surprise, you've dissed your best pilot yet. I hope you know that now. Sir.”

There was a moment of quiet. Iverson's eyes were fixed on Keith, studying him, and his expression didn't reveal a thing. Then, he nodded.

“You are far out of line, cadet,” he said. “But I think you're right. I think McClain is much more than we gave him credit for. I will heavily consider him as a candidate for the senior scholarships next year. And I think you should be proud to have him as your friend.”

Keith huffed, the corners of his lips playfully upturned. “He's much more than that, sir,” he said.

Iverson blinked in surprise, but Keith smiled, and left the room.

 

April 27 th , 11:34 a.m.

At the end of that day's class with Iverson, he pulled Lance aside, gesturing at the nearby building. Lance said something Keith couldn't hear and scrambled away, and Iverson turned to Keith, nodding solemnly before following him. That made him smile.

“Him too, huh?” someone asked besides Keith.

Keith had never spoken to her before – it was Yulia Polak, a tall, blonde girl carrying a strong Europian accent. She was one of the best pilots in their class from the very start, but unlike Sheinfield, she was much nicer to everyone she talked to, which as far as Keith could tell, was _everyone_.

She ran her fingers through her hair, collecting it into a high ponytail with a hairband she had around her wrist. “I mean, I'm guessing you got the talk, too,” she said.

“The talk?” Keith asked, uncrossing his arms.

She looked around suspiciously. “The air show talk,” she hissed.

“Oh,” Keith said, turning to face the building. He tried to trace with his memory where Iverson's office would sit inside of it, and wondered if Lance got there yet. “I did. I didn't know it was such a big secret.”

Yulia nodded seriously, her ponytail shaking when she did. “Oh, absolutely. We're the only ones who know about it. You, me, and McClain.”

Keith's brow furrowed. Then, he noticed her – on the other side of the tarmac, Andrea Sheinfield was standing, watching, eyes cold. She looked like a statue, stiff and still, and it sent shivers down Keith's spine.

“You're number three,” Keith mumbled.

Yulia shrugged. “According to Iverson,” she confirmed. “I didn't think I stood a chance – I mean, no offense to any of us, but I thought Andrea was going to be one of the top three.”

Keith studied the glaring Andrea Sheinfield from the corner of his eye. “You're not the only one,” he said.

So that was it – after a year of intense competition, he – along with Lance – had finally beaten Sheinfield. For some reason, it didn't feel as great as Keith had hoped.

 


	33. Mayday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you feel the end near :")

Mayday

 

May 10 th , 7:30 p.m.

Rumors were flying even before the charts appeared in the hall.

Keith didn't bother waking up early to take a look, already knowing his place, but Lance went anyway, just to confirm, and sent Keith a picture of the charts, free of students blocking the way.

Just like Iverson said – Yulia Polak was the third slot on the list, then came his, and then Lance's, in first. Andrea Sheinfield came in fourth.

After that, the only rumors left were about the nature of Keith and Lance's relationship, though neither of them found the interest to care.

The only time Lance wanted to address it, was when they sat together on Keith's bed, curled inside blankets, Keith holding Lance's hand, while he was holding his phone in his other.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Keith asked, tracing Lance's knuckles with his thumb. “You don't have to.”

“I want to. Not because I'm the only boy in a Cuban family. Because I want to be honest – for me,” Lance said, and dialed home.

It was a beat before someone answered, and Lance began speaking in a shaky voice, musical words that Keith couldn't understand, aside from the word _bisexual_ , and his own name, whispered gently over the phone while Lance was looking right at him. It sounded like he was spilling his heart out – but it also sounded like someone on the other end of the line was there to catch it; and when Lance began crying, he started smiling, too, and Keith was there until his goodbye.

"Remind me not to freak out about societal norms when it comes to my family ever again," Lance said, and when they kissed, he was still smiling.

 

May 22 nd , 5:43 p.m.

As the days went by, there was less and less time for kissing and heartfelt conversations. Those hours were mostly filled by rehearsals – led by an uncompromising Iverson, who was even less fun under the pressure of a deadline.

And there was one, finally given – June first – the date for the air show. It was hung around every corner of Galaxy Garrison, every corridor and classroom, in posters, stickers, and everything else.

Lance was granted a month-long break from his work in Quinn, only to be replaced by more work of perfecting Iverson's vision of the show. It looked like a big, chaotic mess when they had just started – Keith, Lance, and Yulia Polak all trying to keep in sync through their comms while also having to listen to Iverson's commands – but as time went on, their act got more put together, neater, finally getting its shape.

Eventually, the other main players started coming for practice, including some famous pilots – Keith didn't know them all, but one of them kept teasing him mercilessly.

“Look at you!” Shiro said on one of their breaks, ruffling Keith's hair, much to his dismay.

It was an orange afternoon, where the sky got colored in all of spring's palette, while the air was still chilly, reminiscent of the winter that was. They were sitting away from the crowd, watching the jets being refueled.

“It's not such a big deal,” Keith said, swatting his hand away.

“Not a big deal?” Shiro asked, floored. “You just told me you have a _boyfriend!_ That's pretty big in my book. What's his name? Wait, I think I know.”

Keith sighed. “Shiro...”

“Alright, alright.” Shiro crossed his arms. “I won't bother you about it. But tell him he's welcome to come to our place whenever he wants.”

“Our place?” Keith raised a brow, but he was smiling.

“Yeah,” Shiro said. “Keith, you're my brother. My humble desert shack is just as much of a home to you as it is to me. Listen, I know we haven't talked about this, but I'd love it if you stayed for summer vacation, if that's something you –“

“I will,” Keith cut him off. “And if we're on the subject of things we haven't talked about, um – we haven't been on the best of terms all year. But I've grown. And you've grown. And we kind of grew together. Look, I'm shit with words –“

“Language,” Shiro interrupted, his eyes radiant with content.

“I'm _really bad_ with words," Keith corrected. "But I hope you know... I moved past that. And I forgive you. And I love you. So yeah, I will spend summer vacation at your place – _our_ place.”

Shiro smiled. Then, he kissed the top of Keith's head.

“I love you, too,” he said. “You're the best brother a pilot could ask for, and the best pilot a brother could ask for.”

Then, he ruffled Keith's hair again, making him roll his eyes in the fondest way possible.

 

May 31 st , 8:50 p.m.

The last rehearsals were also the best – the rest of the fighter class joined them, finally, along with some seniors who also took part in the air show, and it felt like the beginning of the end – in a good way, the heat of a nearby summer starting to creep in at last.

“Can you believe it's actually over?” Lance asked Keith after the final rehearsal, looking at the strangely-still jets sprawled under the pink skies. “We've done it – we've survived junior year. We're going to be _seniors_. That's insane.”

“It feels like a dream,” Keith mumbled, voice soft like the faint clouds passing overhead. “Like we're inside a dream.”

“Like a Matrix,” Lance added, nudging Keith's arm lightly.

“Like a Matrix,” Keith agreed, and wrapped his hand around Lance's.

Keith made the shower pipes whistle when he asked for warm water, and barely left any for Lance, who took the shower after him and left it trembling. Luckily, Keith had a mountain of blankets prepared just for them, and a movie – though neither of them really paid attention that time, mostly distracted by each other, teasing and tickling and kissing and laughing. It was everything Keith could have asked for.

By the time the final credits rolled on a black screen, neither of them were watching anymore, kissing and kissing and kissing, harder and harder yet, more urgent with every breath they drew, and it was almost surprising to Keith, to know that he could contain so much love for one person.

But just almost.

Some part of him, he guessed, knew it all along.

 


	34. Showtime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof not sure if it's anticlimactic or overly dramatic.  
> TW for injuries and such :|

Showtime

 

June 1 st , 7:30 a.m.

It was June, and so it was showtime.

The heat clung to Keith's skin like a disease, unsettling. It felt like a fever dream, like he hadn't completely woken up, even when he was outside on the tarmac, the bleachers filled with thousands of lively cheers and starry eyes, brilliant with anticipation for the air show, for their loved ones graduating, for children coming home with the bliss of the summer wind.

Iverson gathered them all, talking about excellence and about remembering practice, but Keith couldn't bear to listen. His veins were screaming, mind aloof, body ready for actions, not words. Only after most of the junior cadets had spread out, Keith realized that he did, in fact, take in some of Iverson's speech – the last words he said to all of them, "I'm proud of you". Keith thought he might have misheard in his unfocused haze, but after it was only Yulia Polak, Lance, and he left standing on the tarmac before Iverson, he repeated; and even so Keith couldn't believe what he was hearing.

“You've worked hard to prove yourselves,” Iverson said. “And I'm proud of you. You should be proud of yourselves, too. May some stuck-up SpaceX billionaire sit in the crowd today to see the payoff for your hard work. They'd be fools not to hire the three of you someday. Cadets.”

He smiled, a rare, genuine smile, then he did something none of them were expecting – he stood straight, and saluted them. It was a moment of sheer surprise before they collectively saluted back.

Then they had breakfast on the field – Keith, Lance, and Yulia Polak – though you could hardly say it was only the three of them, because people kept coming and going, telling them to break a leg and do their best. It was mostly Yulia's friends, but at some point, Pidge and Hunk showed up.

“If I had We Are The Champions ready, I'd play it right now,” Pidge said. “Seriously. You guys are gonna do awesome.”

"I'm not sure Queen is a good idea right now," Lance said, and he and Keith exchanged looks, like a secret between the two of them.

“The doing awesome part still stands,” Hunk said.

Then, they pulled Keith and Lance to their feet and into a group hug, and it was silly in all the best ways. And then they left, too, and Yulia wondered off to where the rest of the junior fighter class stood, and that left Keith alone with Lance, as the speakers counted down the minutes to the start of the show.

Lance smiled – then grabbed Keith by his hand, and ran, both of them giggling like idiots as their shoes kicked dust and gray asphalt across the tarmac to the line of roaring astrocrafts. They stopped behind Lance's jet, stomachs aching for air, the Nevada breeze greeting their faces with warmth.

“We have to be ready soon,” Keith said in between breaths, sounding quiet when the wind stole his voice. “What – ?”

He never finished that sentence. Lance cupped his face and kissed him, he kissed him hard and desperate, long and sweet and wild, kissed the breath out of him, until they were both panting, forehead against forehead. Lance was smiling, stars and snowflakes leaving their patterns as crinkles by the corner of his eyes.

“I just...” he huffed, his breath warm on Keith's lip. “I just wanted to kiss you good luck. And also, to say that I love you. So good luck, and... I love you. I love you, Keith Kogane, more than the sky loves the stars, and more than you love the sky. I love you.”

Keith stared at him, at the stupid smile smeared across his lips and the stupid blush painting his tan cheeks and at his stupid, _stupid_ fond eyes, more blue than the planet Earth in a rearview mirror.

“Idiot,” he mumbled. Then, he kissed Lance back, kissed him with every bit of him, every reason and purpose he had in him, kissed him with the force of his life. When they tore apart again, Keith traced his thumbs gently over Lance's cheekbones and said, “I love you, too. More than I love the stars, or the sky, or Nevada – because this dumb desert does have its charm – or more than I love anything else. I love you.”

They stayed like that for a few seconds, smiling at each other, holding each other, like any of them could float away if they let go. Then, Keith planted a single kiss on Lance's forehead, and despite every instinct telling him otherwise, he turned around and left running.

The next few things happened in the span of seconds.

First, after running nothing more than a couple of steps, Keith slipped, falling to his knees.

Then, Keith's pants soaked in wetness, but it wasn't blood. He crouched, sweeping the pads of his fingers on the smooth asphalt. When he opened his palm, it was covered by something black and slippery, and when he lifted his hand to examine the liquid, its smell was too strong to breathe in, stinging in Keith's throat.

But it was vaguely familiar, too – Keith followed the trail of drops on the gray asphalt with his eyes, followed it to exactly where he came from, to Lance's jet. Fuel. It was fuel.

Lastly, Keith understood. Eyes widened and hands shaking, he yelled, “ _Lance!_ ” – but it was already too late by the time he began running towards the khaki jet behind.

The tarmac was torn with the sound of explosions, and Keith was blasted back.

 

June 1 st , 7:42 a.m.

Being inside an explosion, Keith realized, felt nothing like watching one.

For one, after the initial blast, all Keith could hear was a high-pitched wail ringing in his ears, and he could see nothing, no fire, no ground and no sky, just gray and gray and gray, outstretched everywhere. It took him a while to realize it was smoke he was seeing, hazily, through lidded eyes. Then, he began coughing it. Looking down, his limbs were covered with scratches, but they were there, holding his body shakily on the ground, feeling like they were going to give out at any given moment.

And he would have let them – it was easier that way, to fall into the blackness of unconsciousness, to let him elbows and wrists and shoulders and knees give out and drop to the ground – he would have fallen, if not for the only thing scorched in his mind being Lance's eyes, a vision piercing at him through the screen of ringing noise and heavy smoke.

Keith forced his numb legs to heave him up, pushed them to lead him in a drunken walk to where he believed was the jet, only his shirt collar serving as a barrier from the poisonous air. His knees trembled with every step. His eyes stung, scorching tears dropping like beads to the ground. He called Lance's name in a voice he didn't recognize as his own, a voice he could barely hear at all, called for him until his throat became too dry to make any sound.

Then, after a while of wobbling in the smoke cloud, a team equipped with white coats and face masks got to Keith before he managed to get to Lance. They were carrying a stretcher, and they kept talking to Keith, but he couldn't hear them, couldn't figure out what any of them were saying, so he kept trying to scream for Lance, kept calling his name, even when they seized him by the shoulders and dragged him away from the smoke, Keith's shoes grinding against the gritty concrete in protest.

Soon enough he was greeted with the white walls of the Garrison's hospital wing, and by the time he was lying on a bed there, guarded by multiple staff members, his hearing began pouring back in, slowly, muffled and painful in his head.

When it did, Keith realized he was chanting, crying the same thing over and over again, _Lance_. _Lance, Lance, Lance, find Lance, find Lance_. Then, within a moment, the group of commanders and nurses was split in half when Shiro ran in.

And when that happened, Keith began really crying, sobbing, burying his face in his wounded hands. Shiro was there within a second, hugging Keith hard with trembling arms, telling him it was okay, and that he was okay, but his voice was fragile.

“Lance,” Keith muttered, and his mouth tasted bitter, like iron, like blood. “I – I have to find Lance – he was there at the explosion – I have to –“

"They brought him in earlier, Keith," Shiro said, and when Keith looked up at him wide-eyed, brittle and lightweight, he nodded. "He's okay. I mean – he was hurt badly, fractured bones; and he was brought in barely conscious – but he's alive. Thankfully, the fuel tank on that particular jet wasn't big or fully loaded yet – and he was far enough from the site of the explosion to not take –"

“I need to see him,” Keith said, voice low.

“Keith –“

“I need to see him,” he repeated, voice broken and urgent. “Shiro, I _have_ to.”

“You still need to be scanned for fractures – you need to –“

"I love him, Shiro," Keith cried, voice no louder than the chirp of a wounded bird. "Please, I have to see him."

Shiro blinked at that. He looked at Keith for a moment, solemn, then nodded. He grabbed a wheelchair sitting beside Keith's hospital bed, carefully helped him on it, then pushed him through the hospital wing – one curtain, two curtains, three curtains – the wait was agonizing; but after a moment Keith heard protests – croaky, broken, sing-songy protests – and he leaped off the chair, despite the sharp burn spreading in his legs, despite Shiro's protests, to the nearest hospital bed.

There, wrapped inside five different casts and eight bloodstained bandages, yelling at three different commanders all at once in two different languages, throwing blames with broken fingers, was Lance McClain, moving, breathing, _alive_.

His voice ran dry when he noticed Keith. Then, tears began rolling down his cheeks and into the cast around his neck, and Keith began crying again, too, and then he was by Lance's bed, clinging to him desperately, both of them trembling and bleeding and crying.

By the time Keith pulled back, no one was by Lance's hospital bed but him and Shiro standing behind.

“I was so scared,” Keith said, wrapping his hand around Lance's fingers, poking through the white cast on his arm.

“Me, too,” Lance whispered.

“I thought you – I –” Keith said.

“I know,” Lance whispered. “Hug me again.”

Keith did, resting his cheek on Lance's chest, one of the only places not covered by a cast or bandage, feeling it heave slowly, shakily, with every breath he took. That time, instead of getting back up, Keith cupped Lance's face carefully, and placed a gentle kiss on his lips. Both of them tasted like blood, but neither of them minded. When they kissed, Keith cried again, silent tears wetting his cheeks. He was shaken, but he was grateful – to be kissing Lance, to be seeing Lance, for Lance being there, alive.

“Sorry for all the PDA, instructor Shiro,” Lance mumbled at Shiro standing by the curtain when they tore apart. “By the way, this might just be the drugs talking – they put me on a lot of stuff – but I'm kind of a fan – a little because of the pilot thing, but mostly because of how well Keith speaks of you. Um, sir.”

“Idiot,” Keith muttered, but he let the tip of his fingers intertwine with Lance's.

Shiro came to stand beside Keith, smiling softly. “No need for honoraries right now, cadet,” he said. “How would you like telling me everything Keith says about me over family dinner when you're better?”

“I would love that, sir,” Lance mumbled. “I mean, as long as my boyfriend's okay with it.”

“Idiot,” Keith repeated, planting a soft kiss on Lance's cheek.

“At least the morphine eases your pain,” Shiro said, sounding relieved. “It didn't do much for the other cadet brought in.”

Keith furrowed his brow. “Which other cadet?”

Shiro blinked. “I thought you were with her when it happened,” he said, confused. “There was another student at the site of the explosion. A girl – she got some serious burns.”

Keith's eyes met with Lance's in a beat of straining silence.

“Keith –“ Lance warned, but Keith was already running out of the room, eyes wild, breaths short and jittery. His muscles all screamed, but he didn't stop, searching maniacally, drawing curtain, after curtain, after curtain in swift motions, until he drew the curtain to reveal a boney, huddled, pale figure, taped to all hell with bandages and medical tape, dark eyes and dark bangs wet with sweat and blood.

“You,” Keith gritted, low, dangerous.

Andrea Sheinfield turned her head an inch, just enough to look at Keith. She looked bad, bruised and burnt from every corner, but it was nothing compared to what Keith wanted to do to her at that moment.

“It _was_ you, wasn't it? You couldn't handle the thought of not flying in the fucking air show, so you went ahead and tried to _make_ yourself a spot there, didn't you?” Keith was screaming, he was screaming so loud his throat hurt and his head throbbed, but he didn't care. He couldn't care, not when Lance was lying, nearly knocked out, a few beds away. “You piece of fucking –“

Keith would have launched at her already, would have punched her unconscious, if not for Shiro suddenly grabbing him, gripping both of his shoulders hard and grounding him in place.

“Keith, don't,” Shiro said, a whisper.

Keith ignored him, still trying to push forward. “You almost killed him!” he called.

“I – I didn't mean to!” Andrea said, voice wobbly and small, like a child's, tears falling in pairs from her swollen eyes. “I-I-I wanted to put the jet out of function. Any jet. To make it not respond. To cancel the air show. I didn't know it was McClain's – I didn't mean for the explosion to happen, I swear!”

Keith was blinded by rage, blotches of red and black flashing in his vision. “I swear, I'm going to –“

“Keith!” Shiro dragged him away from Andrea Sheinfield's room, still holding him by the shoulders. “ _Stop_. The Garrison will deal with her, I promise. It's not worth it. She's not worth it.”

Keith was still panting, jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Shiro just held onto his shoulders. Then, Keith put a shaking hand over his eyes, biting back tears, and when Shiro wrapped his arms around him instead, Keith didn't know what he would do without his brother.

 

June 1 st , 8:53 a.m.

Needless to say there was no air show that day.

People began getting unsettled outside, demanding explanations – Keith got all the updates from Pidge and Hunk, messaging him and filming it all.

He got scanned, too, by then – several times – to reveal broken bones in one of his legs, and cracked bones in the other, but it was nothing compared to Lance's wounds. When they put Keith on morphine, Lance joked about them technically doing drugs, and that was how Keith knew it was going to be okay.

A little while later, the sound of a chopper could be heard practically everywhere – and a moment after, a woman came rushing into the hospital. Keith barely caught a glimpse of her, but he knew exactly who she was.

“Sheinfield's mom,” he said, sitting beside Lance's bed on his temporary wheelchair. “Michaela Martinez.”

“Man, _Martinez_ is her mom?” Lance said, then huffed a laugh. “For some reason I find this highly ironic.”

“You shouldn't,” Shiro said, from the corner of the room. “Michaela wasn't the legend she was made out to be. She got a bad injury, and she had to quit flight. Then, she moved back to her home in Spain. I can't tell you with certainty, but it's said that when she had her child, she wanted to her to carry her legacy on from where she had left off.

That kid was under a lot of pressure at home. Even so, what she did was wrong in every way. We're not the ghosts of our predecessors.”

When he looked at Keith, Keith smiled.

Then, Lance smiled, and said, "Hey, Shiro, what's your opinion on the 20th-century masterpiece, The Matrix?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> insert an angry metaphor about spaniards getting opportunities while latine people aren't etc etc


	35. Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhhhhhhhh

**Flight**

 

Promise

 

June 29 th , 6:45 p.m.

The pros of being stuck with a cast and a wheelchair – Keith missed a whole month of getting bossed around by Iverson, _and_ he had a lot of time for kissing Lance, something that was more than rare before, and something he was more than grateful for.

The cons of being stuck with a cast and a wheelchair were – well, _being stuck with a cast and a wheelchair_.

Keith was desperate to be able to walk again, but the medical staff forbade it at all costs. Lance, on the other hand, took his temporary grounding situation much better, reading up piles of philosophy books, and catching up on all of his missed TV show episodes – but even he wanted to be back to using his body like he used to by the end of the month.

He talked to his family every day, saying words Keith couldn't understand, but was happy to hear nonetheless. In the middle of June, they sent him a letter, delivered right to his bed in the Garrison's hospital wing, and when he opened it with Keith by his side, he found a plane ticket inside, set for the evening of the last day of June. He begged the nurses to let him off the casts and take the flight home, but they wouldn't hear it. Eventually, they reached a compromise – Lance was to keep wearing his casts and bandages, but he could take the flight to Cuba, as long he was really careful.

By that time, Keith had already been released from the hospital for long, and both of them thought there was no better time for a family dinner.

And so they did it – Shiro called a cab for them all, and after the careful, cumbersome process of getting them both out of it on their wheelchairs, they rolled inside, and stuffed themselves full of freshly cooked Mac 'n Cheese.

Shiro wanted to hear everything – how they met, when they became boyfriends, who kissed who first, all of it. Keith protested in embarrassment over his insistence to know it all, but Lance was glad to tell him the whole story, starting with the laundromat by the empty road, and ending with Keith's trip to Las Vegas's airport on Shiro's hoverbike, finally revealing to him the origin of its scratches and distressed state, Shiro's expression switching from fond to completely terrified.

After that, they played Scrabble and Monopoly – quitting halfway whenever it was evident that Shiro was going to win the game – then, Shiro took the dishes to wash – another perk of Keith's broken legs, not having to help with that task – while Keith and Lance sat on the front porch.

“I'm not going to see you for two months,” Keith said, looking away at the far sunset, and the darkening sky around it.

“Two months will fly by,” Lance said, smiling, but even his smile was sad, and Keith suddenly felt like crying.

“What if you forget me?” Keith asked, half-joking, but maybe also half-not.

Lance laughed at that. “Keith Kogane, you are not someone to be forgotten,” he said. “We'll write each other all the time. I'll send the best memes. And I'll be back. And we'll both be seniors. And I'll still be me, and you'll still be you, and we'll still be boyfriends.”

He stretched his pinky out for Keith, and when Keith caught it in his own, Lance pulled their hands together and kissed them.

“There,” he said softly. “The promise is sealed.”

 

June 30 th , 10:30 a.m.

Galaxy Garrison was many things, but it wasn't good at graduation parties.

As expected, most of the attention went to the seniors – but when the juniors' turn came, the crowd clapped ever-louder for Keith and Lance. Iverson smiled when he handed them their junior diploma, and it was weirdly comforting.

Sheinfield's name was never called – but Keith knew that already. Pidge and Hunk, on their visits to the hospital wing to see Lance and him, had informed him the entirety of the Garrison was only talking about Michaela Martinez's crazy daughter, and that she was taken to a closeby Nevada hospital, and from there, she would finish her high school career somewhere else.

In some way, Keith felt sorry for her. He pitied what she had become. He remembered when she told him they were alike, but if he was doubtful then, he was completely certain now, that he was nothing like her. Keith didn't need the name of his father, or the thrill of flight to keep him going. He could do without it. He was everything that Sheinfield wasn't. And that was a comfort, too.

 

June 30 th , 7:11 p.m.

McCarran International Airport was full of people, but that time, Keith didn't mind as much. He followed Lance through lines and lines, until he couldn't anymore, blocked by a fence of a blue felt belt, and Lance had to carry on from there alone.

“You got everything?” Keith asked. “Passport, luggage, everything?”

“Everything,” Lance confirmed. His voice was shaky, and his eyes were shiny, and Keith knew that if he began crying, he would, too.

“Don't cry,” he said, but his own voice came out wobbly. “Take care. Be safe. Call me when you land. And after that, too. Just talk to me whenever you can. And be safe – god, _please_ be safe.”

“Okay,” Lance said. “And stay safe, too. Will it be cheesy to kiss you now?”

“Very,” Keith said, but he rolled his wheelchair forward anyway, and kissed Lance, a long, soft kiss, that left them both with a bittersweet longing for more.

And then Lance tore back, but he was crying, and then Keith was, too. “I love you,” he told Keith.

“I love you, too,” Keith said back.

And then Lance smiled and left, and Shiro had to talk Keith out of chasing him down the terminal on his wheelchair and hopping on a plane to Cuba for a while after Lance had already left.

Keith only agreed to leave when he looked down at his pinky, and raised it to his lips, hanging on to a promise held by the summer air.

 


	36. of Beginnings and Endings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for every end is a new beginning.

of Beginnings  and Endings

 

July 16 th , 8:39 a.m.

Keith was back in Las Vegas half a month later.

“Are you his legal guardian?” a woman asked behind the shiny desk, moving her flimsy glasses up her nose.

“I am,” Shiro confirmed, then signed the papers in his hands.

"Congratulations, kid," the woman said, the printer beside her dropping a glossy plastic card onto her hands, which she then handed to Keith. "You're officially licensed to fly a hovercycle. Drive safe."

Keith examined the license in his hands. He was smiling in his photo – he didn't remember smiling when it was taken. He kind of liked it.

Keith drove them home. After hours of practice under Shiro's supervision, Keith could finally fly the thing smoothly, knowing exactly at which speeds to go and where Shiro liked to park. That was why he was surprised when Shiro told him to make a lap around the house instead.

“I just want to show you something,” he told Keith, a playful smile on his face, and Keith, albeit wary, floated around back to the backyard.

It was messy there, grass growing unkempt between patches of dry mud – just the way Keith liked it – and on top of the grass, a brand new Kawasaki hovercycle.

Keith almost fell off the bike when he saw it, somehow managing to land Shiro's old vehicle at top speed right next to it without crashing, grass strands whipping wildly all around.

“No way,” he muttered, leaping off and stepping forward to the new, shiny bike.

“Yeah way,” Shiro said, and even though Keith wasn't looking at him, he could hear the smile in his voice. “I saved up. Thought it was time to buy another.”

Keith examined it closer, and his reflection glimmered, distorted, on the silver handlebars of the Kawasaki. It was coated in silver, silver and black – even the black leather seat caught the light beautifully. It was simple, and elegantly so, and it smelled perfect, new, fresh.

“It's yours if you want it,” Shiro said behind him.

Keith froze – then turned around. Shiro shrugged. “What am I going to do with two, anyway?” he said. “You have your permit now. You can have one of them.”

Keith blinked at that. Then, he smiled, and pointed at Shiro's old Honda. “I want that one,” he said.

Shiro's thick eyebrows went all the way up to his hairline. Keith laughed, shrugging. “We go back,” he simply said. “This one is fancy, but... I've grown to care for your old ride.”

Shiro chuckled, and he still sounded surprised, but he said, “It's yours now.” – and threw the keys to Keith.

 

August 19 th , 6:42 p.m.

The next time Keith got to spend a while in Shiro's backyard was in his father's death anniversary.

He and Shiro spread a white tablecloth over the dirt and the grass, and on top of it placed a picture of him, and some white candles. Then, they both moved to sit on top of the wooden steps leading back to the house, dirt-stained and lighted orange by the candles.

“He was an incredible pilot,” Keith found himself saying, hushed. “And a terrible father.”

Shiro looked at him for a moment. Keith thought he might protest, or tell him it was all in the past, or tell him it was disrespectful – because Keith knew that it was, but Shiro just draped his arm over Keith's shoulder and pulled him into a loose hug.

“Cyrus was a good person when I knew him,” Shiro said, just as soft. “But he wasn't that person anymore by the time he was gone. My biggest regret is not taking you in before he lost himself.”

A single tear fluttered from the corner of Keith's eye down his cheek, and Shiro wiped it away. Then, Keith's lips formed a small smile, a smile for a farewell, ever so symbolically.

They left the garden together.

 

August 29 th , 6:04 p.m.

Lance didn't forget about Keith.

Keith made sure of that, every day of that summer he made sure of it, up until a new school year was edging near, and Keith mounted his hoverbike to Vegas again, his smile a crescent moon all the way there.

And after a while, crossing a blue felt line, Keith saw him, and Lance saw him, too, and both of them were caught standing still, looking at each other. Seeing Lance was like breathing again.

Neither of them had their casts any longer, so they were both free to run into each other's arms in the middle of a busy airport in Las Vegas, making _everybody_ watch, and for once Keith didn't mind a cliché.

“I missed you,” Lance whispered in Keith's ear.

“I missed you, too,” Keith whispered back.

Then, Lance linked their pinkies and kissed them with a soft smile, and Keith felt so overwhelmed with happiness he thought he might cry.

 

August 29 th , 8:50 p.m.

Quinn's arcade was brighter than Keith remembered.

They played everything – starting with a match at the air hockey table, and ending with the _Dance Dance Revolution_ game machine, still playing the wrong songs, still a thrill to play.

They left for Pizza Galaxy – Lance greeted every staff member while ordering. It felt good to not be timed while they ate, for a change, the teal stars above them gleaming ever-brighter, telling each other everything they had missed.

There didn't seem to be enough time to tell it all – they carried the conversation on and on, up until Keith parked his bike beside a small, empty building by a big, empty road.

The _Wash 'n Go_ laundromat was just as gloomy as it was when they had left it, but Keith didn't want it any other way. They went around the building, all giggles and huffed breaths, the Nevada wind a bliss against both of them, and climbed back onto the roof.

There, Lance played _Queen_ for them again, and that time, Keith didn't wait for the song to end to kiss Lance. He kissed him, kissed and kissed and kissed, until there was no trace of their lost time, until the desert winds whistled in their ears, until there was no Earth without Nevada, and no Nevada without Lance and Keith in it.

Lance huffed a laugh, and it tickled on Keith's lips. “More than the sky loves the stars, and more than you love the sky,” he whispered.

Keith laughed, too.

“Idiot,” he mumbled, then pressed another kiss on Lance's lips.

 

September 1 st , 8:30 a.m.

Lance got a scholarship.

Pidge and Hunk looked older around their usual cafeteria table for breakfast, and Keith felt something mature in the air, too. Not that it mattered – Pidge still talked about coding, and Hunk was as kind as ever, and they all slipped right back into the comfort of their friendship seamlessly.

Then, Iverson showed up to their table, seemingly out of nowhere, and before anyone could get up and salute him, he patted Lance's shoulder and said, “Money management wants to speak with you.”

Lance looked terrified leaving the table, but Keith had no doubt in mind when Iverson tilted his chin up and nodded.

“Thank you,” Keith said, and he was earnest.

“Only the least I can do for the best pilot in the building,” Iverson said, smiling slightly at the echo of Keith's words from the previous year.

 

September 10 th , 8:12 a.m.

The next time they spoke, it was over the comms in the belated air show.

It was a last-minute decision, to set a new date, but Galaxy Garrison did it by popular demand from pilots and parents alike, scribbling _September_ over the posters hung in the halls, sending updated notices to students and parents to save that date.

The pilots didn't practice for months and months, and so Iverson had to keep reminding them of their routine from the ground, but once Keith was airborne, he felt at ease, fitting perfectly into their aerodynamic dance.

At the very end of the act, they all had to steer their jet upwards, upwards – to the ends of the Earth – and though Nevada was nothing but a red patch on the beautiful lonely planet below, when Keith caught Lance's eyes, flying next to him, he felt at home.

Soon, they would have to return. But Keith let himself float for a moment there with Lance, smiling and giddy, hung above the Earth like stars above Nevada.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wELP THERE IT IS GUYS.  
> this story was a joy to write, and though it's a little heavy on the wannabe-contemporary-novel-ness, it was still really fun for me to write. i fell in love with this version of klance, and i fell in love with this version of nevada.  
> thanks to anyone who managed to get this far!! sdhfksdsdkjg. i'm gonna keep on writing, and hopefully put another vld fic out in the nearish future. thank you all for reading aaaaaa  
> you can find me on tumblr [@nymalura](https://nymalura.tumblr.com/) !!! :')


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